Luck Of The Draw
by OLadyOfSpiral
Summary: He was an American Colonel and leader of the underground resistance against the Nazis. She was an author that wanted nothing more than to play merry havoc with his storyline and life. Dare I mention things won't go well for the Colonel and his men in this non-Mary Sue tale?
1. Chapter 1

**Luck of the Draw**

Hi! I hope you enjoy the story - it's just for silly fun! Nothing too serious...much! I sooooooo really appreciate the help some very special authors gave me - you know who you are! Thank you!

Summary: What if Hogan and his men knew they were characters in fanfiction? How would they deal with it? And what would they do if an author threw their universe into chaos?

Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes!

* * *

"Another bloody author," Corporal Newkirk muttered as he stamped his feet on the cold ground. "You think they'd set the story for a warm day."

"Look on the bright side," Sergeant Kinchloe offered, his breaths steaming up the chilly air. "At least people are writing about us. That's something."

"But does it have to be so cold?" Louis LeBeau groused, his small body jumping up and down in an futile effort to stay warm.

"Well, it could be worse," Andrew Carter, the Sergeant-turned-bombmaker piped up. "It could be snowing. And the wind could be blowing, too-"

Just then, a chilly gust blew across the compound and through the bones of the assembled men. A sudden flurry of snowflakes drenched the Prisoners of War in white before tapering off.

"Carter," Newkirk growled, brushing the wet flakes off his uniform, "next time, keep your bleeding mouth shut!" The Englishman tried to shrink inside his blue jacket even as the door to the Kommandantur opened.

Colonel Wilhelm Klink, the Kommandant of Stalag 13, stepped out onto the small porch before his monocled eye surveyed the prisoners with a jaundiced glare. Colonel Hogan smiled cheerfully in response.

 _And here we go again,_ the American thought. _Another author. Another story._ He sighed. _Hopefully this one won't have any plot holes! And maybe it'll have an ending this time, too..._

"Prisoners of the Third Reich," Klink's annoyingly reedy voice began, "I bring you news of the war of which you are no longer a part..."

 _Oh, come on!_ Hogan fumed. _Every author has done this bit already at some point or another! It does get old..._ The handsome officer, resigned to his fate, let a whispery breath of frustration escape his lips even as the German officer continued his predictable speech.

"...the war goes well for the forces of the glorious Third Reich," Klink continued. "We continue to advance on all fronts-"

Suddenly, a loud klaxon went off.

A startled Colonel Klink, along with everyone in the compound, whirled around trying to find the source of the deafening sound. To everyone's surprise confetti began to fall from the empty sky before the blaring noise finally faded away.

"Colonel Klink!" a manly, if not pleasant, German-accented voice boomed from the empty air, "You've said the secret words of the day! Congratulations!" More confetti, followed by a shower of brightly colored balloons, drifted to the ground before the astonished eyes of the prisoners and guards. "You've won the grand prize!" the announcer continued. "Tell him what he's won, Hans!"

"Right you are, Heinrich!" another German voice yelled from nowhere. "Wilhelm Klink, you've won...a brand new car!" As if on cue, a sleek and futuristic - not to mention driverless – red automobile rolled up amidst a triumphant fanfare of horns and music. The retracted cloth top revealed a rich leather interior that stood in stark contrast to the dismal camp surroundings.

"The 2016 Mercedes Benz represents the epitome of luxurious comfort in today's hectic world," Hans called out, obviously reading from a cue card. "The RE SUX features automatic driving, exquisite handling, free oil changes for life and also has a personal assistant to run your errands so you can just enjoy the drive! And it's all yours, Wilhelm Klink!"

The Luftwaffe Colonel's mouth flapped loosely up and down. "Mine?" he stuttered, disbelieving.

"It's all yours!" Hans exclaimed once more. "Come on down and drive her away!" At that, the car's engine revved up several times; Klink broke from his stupor and almost bounded down the steps to admire his prize.

"Plus, as a bonus, we've arranged a special date for you!" Heinrich yelled out. A spotlight, seemingly from nowhere, formed a perfect circle of the front door of the Kommandantur. "And here she is...Annika Hansen, better known as...Seven of Nine from _Star Trek: Voyager!_ "

Every male in the compound - German or otherwise - immediately drooled as a buxom blonde, dressed in a silky long evening gown, exited the building. Oddly, the woman ignored the pointed stares and proceeded nimbly down the steps to the curious Kommandant.

"You are Colonel Wilhelm Klink?" she asked, her voice clipped and to the point. A silvery device above her left eyebrow glinted underneath the harsh glare of the camp lights.

"Uh...yes..." the officer stammered, mesmerized by her beauty...if not her ample, er, attributes.

"Excellent." Without another word she grabbed him by the front of his coat and dumped him into the front passenger seat of the car. Klink had just enough time to recover his senses before the woman slipped behind the steering wheel. "I am your date for tonight," she said matter of factly, laying a cool glare on his trembling monocle. "Resistance is...futile."

Without another word Seven shifted the car into drive and gunned the engine. The Kommandant, his face a mask of terror, watched in horror as his new prize squeaked through the rapidly opening front gates. Only the fading roar of the powerful engine was heard as the car roared off to points unknown. For a moment silence reigned throughout the disbelieving camp before a distinctly Cockney voice shattered the still air.

"You wouldn't be able to spare another one of those dates, would you?" its owner asked. "Mind you, I'm partial to brunettes..."

The invisible announcers failed to respond.

* * *

"It figures," Newkirk groused once they were back in the barracks. "The bloody officers get the best women," A faint sheen of red laced his cheeks as he flicked his eyes toward the Senior POW. "Sorry, Colonel," he said contritely. Colonel Hogan waved him off.

"You're right," he admitted. "However, I would have never figured Klink would go on a date." A faint smile graced his lips as the blonde walked through his mind. "That woman was a knockout." Several voices murmured in agreement. "The bigger question is the story line," he said, returning to the business at hand. "I think this is going to be some kind of humor story."

"Guess this leaves out your bombs, Carter," Kinchloe joked. Sergeant Carter merely grinned.

"Still doesn't mean we can't have fun, though," he said brightly. "That car was something, wasn't it? I wouldn't mind having something like that to drive around."

"Not to mention having someone in the front seat with you," LeBeau said knowingly..

"Yeah, that'd be something!" Carter went on, his mind in another place and time. "Driving down the road, looking over to see her tongue hanging out..." All of the men looked at him quizzically.

"Um...Carter...you do understand we were talking about a date, right. Involving a woman?" Kinch asked. The sergeant blushed.

"Oh, right..." he said, embarrassed. "I was just thinking about Roxie. She's a German Shepherd. You'd love to see her on car rides-"

"Carter," Newkirk's long-suffering voice piped up. "what am I going to do with you?"

"All right, back on topic," Colonel Hogan ordered. "This story's probably going to be a lighthearted one. Kinch, you might get to say a few jokes this time,"

"Don't I wish," the colored man grinned. "I could probably tap dance for laughs,"

"Sssh," LeBeau warned. "Don't give her any ideas." He pointed toward the ceiling. "Authors," he snorted.

"Bloody birds run the show," Newkirk groused. "We just do what they want."

"Keeps us going, though," Kinch interjected. "We could be one of those story categories that has only six stories instead of 1,700. Not bad for a fifty year old show. We even have people writing about us that weren't even alive when the show was on the air."

"You know, I wouldn't mind meeting some of those women," Sergeant Wilkinson, standing nearby, commented. "Yes, sir! I'd like to meat them and bake them out wheresome..." A frown crossed the man's grizzled face.

"You okay, Wilkinson?" Colonel Hogan asked, concern in his eyes.

"We...theresome..." The man visibly seemed to be struggling to speak. "Me...;" ""Notnoone...bowcow..."""";3 Suddenly, the sergeant's eyes rolled up in his head moments before he collapsed to the floor.

Hogan rushed over to the enlisted man and checked his vitals. "He's going into beta shock!" he gravely announced. "Kinch, get me the Emergency Beta Defibrillator from my office!"

The radioman had just turned around when a man suddenly materialized out of thin air. The stranger, dressed in a black uniform with blue trim, looked upon the scene with calm indifference.

"Please state the nature of the medical emergency," he announced. Hogan looked at the visitor with a calculating eye.

 _And what's with the gold triangle on his chest?_

"And you are..." he challenged.

"I'm the emergency medical hologram. Specifically, the doctor from _Star Trek: Voyager_ ," the bald-headed man curtly said. "And you were expecting..."

"A blonde, for starters," the Colonel replied. The stranger rolled his eyes.

"I'm a doctor, not a floozy," he snapped. The man then knelt down and waved a lighted device over the prone body. "This patient is going into beta shock!" the medical officer snapped. "I can't do anything for him unless you find a suitable beta on fan fiction dot net!

"Fry! Leela! Professor!" Sergeant Wilkinson blurted out. He was ignored.

"We have a substitute here," the Colonel shot back just as Kinch pushed several objects into his hands. "Namely, these." He held the items up; the doctor blanched.

"That's too primitive!" the other man exclaimed, standing up. "He needs qualified help!" The hologram rolled his eyes. "Frankly, it it were singing, I could provide assistance," he said conversationally, if not arrogantly. "However this is just plain bad writing by an classically inept author-"

"If you'll shut up for a moment I can treat him!" Hogan interrupted. "Clear!"

The men stood back as Hogan raised his hands. Suddenly, they plunged downward...

...and slammed two thick books - namely, Webster's Dictionary and the Oxford-American dictionary (abridged, 2014) - on either side of the enlisted man's head. Sergeant Wilkinson groaned and coughed before his eyes fluttered open.

"I are's a collage student!" he blurted cheerfully. Hogan raised his hands once more.

"Clear!"

Seconds later, the NCO was shaking his head. "What happened?" he blearily asked. "I was standing, and then..."

"You're all right," the Colonel said as he and Newkirk helped the man to his feet. "Just a bad case of betaitis. You'll be fine."

"Happens to the best of us, mate," the Englishman reassured him. "Sometimes it only lasts for a chapter. Sometimes the whole story. You got lucky."

"Thanks," the sergeant mumbled gratefully even as he nursed his sore temples. The doctor, meanwhile, seemed somewhat put out to be ignored.

"Well, if there's nothing else..." the man dryly deadpanned, "i'll be going." He looked around the barracks with a casual disdain. "Not that I would ever be able to make these quarters...sterile..."

"Don't you have someone else to annoy?" Hogan snapped.

"Fine," the doctor annoyingly breathed before he slapped the golden triangle on his chest. "Computer, deactivate the EMH." Moments later, the stranger was gone.

"Holograms," muttered LeBeau, waving his hands in exasperation. "I hate crossovers!"

"You don't think the author is trying to do a Star Trek/Hogan's Heroes story, do you?" Kinch wondered. "I mean, we already did the one with the original series written by..."He frowned. "What was her name again?"

"Who cares?" muttered LeBeau before a smile brightened his face. "Do you think we could get that 'Annika Hansen' back?" he asked hopefully. "We could use her on some of the missions! No guard would be able to resist her!"

Newkirk stepped forward and slammed his heels into the floor before he popped to attention and saluted Colonel Hogan. "Sir!," he barked. "As a representative of His Majesty I volunteer to show Ms. Hansen around! I'll take her on an in-depth and thorough inspection of the operation and give her my upmost personal attention—"

"Oh, please," scoffed LeBeau. "You can also show her your dress collection, too!" He ignored the suddenly angry glare from the Englishman before continuing. "However, we Frenchmen are totally dedicated to our chosen profession—"

"-and with any Frenchman it's love first and work second!" thundered Newkirk, his hackles rising. "And if you think for one minute—"

"All right, KNOCK IT OFF!" the Colonel yelled, glaring at the combatants. "We've got better things to do." The two men grumbled before settling down.

"Like I said, this is probably a humor story," the senior POW continued. "Maybe a little bit of science fiction, too. We've got to be prepared." He looked over at the radioman. "Kinch, get on the horn with London and find out what's going on. Maybe the author will send us a mission and get the ball rolling."

"Got it!" Kinch replied. As he turned around, a man in a blue power suit and pink tie suddenly materialized from the far wall. He took a few seconds to orient himself before he strode over to his target

"Are you Colonel Robert Emmett Brown Hogan?" he demanded. The American officer gave him a bemused stare.

"And you are…" he challenged.

The man withdrew a blue and white paper from the inside pocket of his tailored suit. "My name is Jordan Miller, Esquire," he sniffed before he slapped the document against the front of Hogan's leather jacket. "I represent the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. This," he declared, "is a restraining order barring you or any member of your command from using the radio in the tunnel below."

"What!?" Hogan exclaimed incredulously. He made no motion to take the paper. The stranger, still puffing wind, wasn't finished yet.

"Furthermore, no one – and I repeat, no one – is allowed to contact London in any way, shape or fashion before our investigation is completed. You're already caused enough damage to the plot line!"

"What plot?" the Colonel growled. "We haven't received one yet! What is this all about, anyway?" Suddenly, his lips curled into a fiendish grin. "Kinch, get Schultz," he ordered. "I think our friend needs to spend some time in the cooler."

"You may want to read that order first," the stranger smugly retorted. Hogan raised a curious eyebrow before he took the document from the man's pudgy hand and unfurled it. As he read it both eyebrows went up.

"You're kidding me…" he murmured. "Discrimination? What are you talking about?"

"Against that poor man there!" Miller exclaimed, raising his hand. Hogan's eyes, along with the other men's, followed the pointed finger to find…

"Kinch!?"

* * *

[Dramatic music as the screen fades into blackness. Suddenly, a cheesy-lawyer-who-can-get-you-loads-of-cash commercial appears onscreen. A rugged well-dressed man wearing a Stetson hat stands in a nondescript courtroom. Oddly, a small object – a pecan nut, specifically – lies on the polished table next to him. On cue he wags a stern finger at the camera.]

"Are you tired of not having your day in court?" he barks. "Sick of settlement offers that don't come close to meeting your medical or other needs? That won't happen with the hammer!" Suddenly, his large hand whips out a claw hammer from nowhere before smashing the peanut in an exaggerated slow motion closeup. Bits of wooden shrapnel fly every which way from the wooden gouge even as the man flashes a devilish grin.

"My name is Jim 'The Hammer' Slammer!" he boomed. "And I can get you what you deserve! Just listen to what my clients have to say!

[Unshaven white guy in a mechanic's shirt]: "I was out on a job site fixing a client's car when Wile E. Coyote rammed into me on his ACME rocketbike. I slammed the hammer on ACME and got $500,000!"

[Overly energetic black lady]: "I tripped over Jerry when he was running from Tom and fell down a flight of stairs before running into the hot iron which sent me into a pile of fresh concrete which caused me to break a nail. I slammed the hammer on Warner Bros. and received $800,000!" [starts dancing] "Woohoo!"

[Droopy, a cartoon character]" "No one would draw me seriously," he said in a leisurely drawl. "Mr. Slammer got the artists to draw me professionally and with a woman. My cash settlement was 50 cents." The cartoon character stared into the camera with a bored expression. "You know what?," he deadpanned. "I'm happy."

"Get your hammer time now!" an overly energetic announcer yelled out. "Don't wait! Call 'The Hammer' at 903-SCR-EWEM now!"

**Dramatization. Jim 'The Hammer' Slammer is still an attorney of record, appeals pending. Mr. Slammer is not board certified except indirectly through his brother's cousin's second roommate. Cases may be referred to newbie lawyers without experience but who are built like quarterbacks and rate as 'hideous' on a qualified facial and vocal ugliness sarcasm scale. If you win, Jim 'The Hammer' Slammer and undesignated accomplices…er, lawyers…will receive 42.5 percent of awards and settlements plus expenses and strip club fees. If you lose, you agree in advance to wash our BMW's and Mercedes for a period of one (1) year. Not valid in all states.

* * *

And so begins the fun! Like I said, no Mary Sues will rear their ugly heads! Of course, that won't stop me from playing with the Heroes...LOLOLOL!

Don't forget to review if you liked this! Thanks!

This story will be updated at 2pm EST on 3-25-15


	2. The (lack of a serious plot) thickens

**Luck of the Draw**

Thank you for reading and reviewing! Let me know what you think! I reposted this chapter due to some minor errors my beta pointed out - thanks!

Summary: What if Hogan and his men knew they were characters in fanfiction? How would they deal with it? And what would they do if an author threw their universe into chaos?

* * *

"Kinch?" Hogan repeated, now confused. "Are you kidding me? He's my second in command!"

The black radioman cocked his head, puzzled. "I've never complained about anything," he murmured while raising an eyebrow. The other man stared at him with sympathetic eyes.

"And that's my point!" Miller thundered. LeBeau made a sarcastic 'pppht' sound with his lips.

"Is there a point?" he mockingly muttered. A slow and decidedly evil grin crossed the lips of his English friend.

"Don't think so, mate," Newkirk groused before he raised his right fist. "Unless I get to make it with my knuckles…"

"All right, HOLD IT!" the Colonel thundered, raising his hands to silence everyone before he snapped his eyes back to the well dressed man. "What's this all about? And you'd better make it quick. Or else," he warned.

The intruder was unfazed. "You have unfairly and repeatedly discriminated against this poor unfortunate individual!" he said, punctuating his words with stabs of a slender finger in Kinch's direction. "First, he is the only one that runs your radio…"

"He's a radioman," Hogan interjected. "And the best one there is!"

"…and you never include him on any of your missions…"

"Have you even seen the episodes?" the Senior POW asked incredulously. "What about the Paris episode? Not to mention episodes 7, 9, 23, 32…"

"Doesn't matter," Miller sniffed. "Again, discriminatory. He doesn't get equal time in Hammelburg restaurants and other public places. Or, for that matter, equal opportunity in blowing anything up!"

"What part of 'colored guy surrounded by white Nazis' do you not understand?" Kinch said, narrowing his eyes in disgust. "It's 1943! We're in Germany! Or have you not noticed?" Everyone looked at him in surprise.

"Well," his low voice pointed out, "someone had to say it."

"Not to mention that he's one of my finest mates," Newkirk growled before he laid an approving hand on the man's shoulder. "No offense, Louie," he said apologetically.

"None taken," said the small Frenchman before his hand joined the RAF Corporal's. "And he's my brother, too." A chorus of voices and hands approved the statement.

Hogan's eyes turned misty for a brief moment before he redirected his gaze and anger toward the intruder. "Kinch is my second in command," he repeated firmly. "We'd do anything for each other! Take your order and get out!"

In response, Miller clapped his hands together slowly and mockingly. "How touching," he drawled. "And yet, pointless." He dropped the paper at Hogan's feet. "Mr. Kinchloe is entitled to equal 'outside the camp' screen time and the equal access to Hammelburg's bars and other public places that your other men enjoy. Until you comply with the order, the radio is off limits. Simple as that."

Newkirk broke forward and raised his fists. "Why I oughta…"

Mr. Miller merely grinned in reply. Before Newkirk could stop him the stranger turned and disappeared into the side wall. Everyone blinked at the impossible sight.

"Lawyers," Hogan finally muttered. He leaned down and grabbed the document with the tips of his fingers before he chucked it into the nearby stove. "Go ahead and contact London, Kinch," he ordered. "Try to find out what is going on. And Kinch…"

Their eyes locked together for a moment.

"We appreciate all you do," the Colonel said. " _I_ appreciate it."

"Same for all of us, mate," Newkirk spoke up.

"Any chance I could get a steak dinner out of this, Colonel?" the radioman grinned. Hogan flashed him an equal smile.

"Maybe in the next war," he promised. "Let me know what you find out."

* * *

In his quarters, Hogan had barely let his weary body relax in the solitary wood chair before there was a knock at the door.

 _What now?_

"We've got a big problem, Colonel," Kinch rumbled. The officer was surprised to see what looked like _...is that panic?..._ in the enlisted man's eyes.

"What's up?"

"I can't get to the radio," Kinch said. "That guy was serious. It's being…guarded." Hogan fixed the enlisted man with a curious stare.

The officer shrugged. "It couldn't that bad. Who do they have? Obviously, its not the Krauts?"

The other man shook his head. "Worse."

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "Teamsters?"

"Try again."

"You don't mean…" The American gasped involuntarily. "Donald Trump?"

"Worse."

* * *

"Meesa pleased to see you!" the alien began. "Mysa name is Jar Jar Binks and I'msa guarding this radio!"

Colonel Hogan was torn between staring at the floppy eared alien and wishing for an aspirin.

"We need to use the radio," he patiently explained.

"NO! No no no," the stranger said, wagging his finger. "Mesa paid to guard the radio!" He blocked Hogan as he stepped forward. "No one can usea this!" he declared.

Colonel Hogan sighed yet again as he felt a headache coming on.

 _Forget the aspirin,_ he decided, then grimaced. _I need a scotch. A double one._

 _It figures,_ he thought sourly. _Out of all the characters in all the **Star Wars** universes we had to get this one! The character voted most likely to be tossed out an airlock…or poisoned…or stuffed with donuts until he explodes._ The last thought made him hungry.

 _Mmmm…donuts._

The senior POW broke away from the tasty memory and stared at the alien once more.

 _Time to add one more black mark to the list._

"Kinch," he drawled. "Where's my .45?"

Before the radioman could answer, another Jar Jar Binks – or his twin; the difference was too close to tell – popped out of the nearby wall. "Meesa pleased to see you!" it happlily exclaimed. "Mysa name is Jar Jar Binks…"

"No, I'm Jar Jar," the first one argued, pointing a finger at his chest. Another clone popped out the right hand tunnel wall.

"No, I'se am!"

Hogan looked on, horrified, as more alien copies began to mysteriously appear. Soon, a babble of mangled English words threatened to drive him bonkers. He looked over at his second in command.

"Let's get out of here," he yelled above the din. Kinch didn't need to be told twice. Together they fled the rapidly filling tunnel of clones. The silence of the topside barracks was a blessed relief.

* * *

"We've got trouble," the senior officer announced to the audience at large. Before he could explain another voice rang out.

"Colonel, Burkhalter and Hochstetter just pulled into camp," Carter announced. Hogan looked at the ceiling.

 _Why me?_

At that moment he took charge. "Kinch, keep an eye on things," he said. "We'll probably end up in the office as usual." Another thought occurred to him. "Is the coffeepot working in this story?"

"It should be," the other man said. "No bets, though."

The Colonel nodded. "Guess we'll find out." He looked at the other enlisted men. "The tunnel is off limits until further notice," he ordered.

"We heard, sir," an unseen and definitely unsung extra piped up. "Jar Jar Binks! Why, oh why, did the author write me into this story?" he wailed. "I could have been one of those killed-horribly-but-quickly guys wearing red shirts on Star Trek! Or been the extra that everyone sees in the background but never hears! But no, I gotta be written into this crazy story-"

"That's enough!" Hogan snapped. "We're all doing our parts and you just did yours! You're the bit comic relief!""

"Oh..." the soon-to-be-eliminated-from-the-story-extra said. "Well, that's ok then!"

"As for the rest of you..." The officer's eyes scanned the room. "Act natural."

"And what happens when they discover the Kommandant is missing?" LeBeau asked.

"Then I hope you all have life insurance policies," he replied. "Because we're all going to need them. Let's go." With that, the two men strode out onto the compound. Burkhalter, unsurprisingly, was still working his ponderous bulk out of the staff car when Hogan walked up. Oddly, Hochstetter was nowhere in sight.

 _Where did he go?_ The Gestapo Major, much like a unwanted snake, had already vanished while leaving his empty car behind. The Colonel stared at the auto for a moment then shrugged as another bad cliché came to mind.

 _Like a bad penny…_

With that, he turned his attention to the _Heer_ officer. "Colonel Klink's not here, General," Hogan called out.

"Hogan!" Burkhalter exclaimed, his beady eyes boring into those of the American. "And just where would he be?"

"You'd have to ask him yourself," the POW replied. "Believe it or not, the last time we saw him he was driving out of camp with a hot blonde."

"You're right, Hogan," the General finally said after a moment. "I don't believe it. And just who was this woman?"

"Never saw her before," the senior POW admitted before he conspiratorially lowered his voice. "However, she had on this evening gown that really highlighted her…"

Just then, the door slammed. A shot rang out. The maid screamed. Suddenly, the stock market crashed. Burkhalter and Hogan watched the descriptions float away on a sudden puff of wind.

"What is that?" the General asked, puzzled.

"I'm not sure," the Colonel said, shaking his head. "If I didn't know better I'd swear our author is channeling Snoopy's typewriter."

Just then, another bang – this one real – came from the front porch of the Kommandantur. Major Hochstetter, a look of frustration on his none-too-pleasant-and-certainly-hideous-to-look-at-face-even-the-Wicked-Witch-of-the-East-wouldn't-kiss-

"Hey, you!" the Gestapo Major yelled to no one in particular. "Stop that! I have feelings!"

"The Gestapo has feelings?" Hogan whispered.

"Only to themselves," Burkhalter muttered.

A light chorus of _'Feelings'_ drifted on the still air before fading away. The song only served to make the target's face turn red with fury. Idly, Hogan wondered if the handle to the leather briefcase the man was holding would snap off.

"Hochstetter!" General Burkhalter barked. "Get control of yourself!" After a moment, the Major visibly reined in his temper.

"My apologies…General," he muttered, albeit reluctantly. "I was looking for Colonel Klink."

"He's not here," Burkhalter replied.

"And how do you know this?" the Gestapo man questioned.

"I'm a general," the large man replied with a smile on his face. "We know everything."

"Really?" Hochstetter questioned, his lips almost sneering. "So where is Klink then?" He looked around. "For that matter, where is that fat Sergeant Schultz? Is he 'guarding' something elsewhere, too?" He grinned as the other men looked around in confusion. Oddly, the overweight Sergeant of the Guard was nowhere in sight. The Senior POW, slightly embarrassed, realized that he hadn't thought about Schultz since the morning roll call.

"Hmmm…" the General mused. "Perhaps he's on the other side of the camp." He waved a beefy hand at a nearby guard. "Find Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz and have them report to the Kommandant's office," he ordered. As the man ran off Hochstetter held up the briefcase.

"Finally, Hogan," he breathed in satisfaction. "You're mine!"

"It's not Valentine's," the officer quipped as he kept his ruggedly handsome yet wonderfully delightful features under tight control.

 _(Author's note: Yes, Hogan is handsome.)_

The trio watched the words form before disappearing into nothingness.

"And how would you describe me?" Hochstetter thundered.

 _(Author's note: Frankly, I think you're quite attractive…)_

All three men gasped at the surprisingly salacious summarized statement before the note went on.

 _(…and you're quite a hunk as well…)_

Hochstetter blushed. The General turned green. And Hogan merely looked on, curious despite the growing tide of nausea in his throat.

 _(…not to mention sexy, too…)_

The two senior officers gagged in response. Hochstetter, meanwhile, smiled at the blue sky and the unseen author.

"So," he said, firmly but kindly. "Does this mean we'll go on a date, my dear?" Hogan looked up in horror. If the author was in league with the Major, this meant the story had a bad ending.

An icy golf ball settled into the stomach of the American as he waited for a response. Suddenly, a loud high pitched tone tore through the air. Before anyone could clap their hands to their ears the sound stopped. More airy words then appeared.

( _Author's Note: This has been a test of the Emergency Bull_ Flattery System. This is only a test. Had the actual words been meant sincerely they would have been followed by Pepto-Bismol, three shots of whiskey and a healthy dose of cyanide. This is only a test. We now return you to your story. Thank you for your attention.)_

Hochstetter cursed. "BAH!" he screamed, pointing a finger at the sky. "I'll get you, my pretty! And when I do…"

"Major!" Burkhalter screamed yet again. Try as he might, he couldn't quite keep the smile from his lips. "What did you want to see Klink about?"

A slight chill coursed through Hogan as the German's angry eyes snapped in his direction. At that moment Hochstetter drew his pistol from a jacket pocket and pointed the black muzzle at the American's chest.

 _Whatever did I do to deserve this plot?_ the target wondered.

"Colonel Hogan," the Gestapo officer snarled in visible pleasure, "You are under arrest!"

"For what?" the POW demanded, seemingly nonplussed at the threat.

"The charges are sabotage and for helping prisoners escape. Among others." An evil grin made itself known beneath the thin mustache. "Your luck, as the Americans say, just ran out."

"One moment," Burkhalter said calmly, raising his hand. "What proof do you have?"

In response, Hochstetter held up the briefcase. "Documents, General," the other man said smugly. "Colonel Hogan is merely the tip of the iceberg. In addition to this man and his _operation_..." the man practically growled the last word, "...the resistance network in this area and eastern France can be eliminated."

The Colonel, meanwhile, kept his face poker calm. Inwardly, his mind was racing through a number of disturbing questions:

 _Who gave us up?_

 _How did they get the whole resistance?_

 _What is the author up to now?_

No answers were forthcoming.

* * *

Ah, a cliffhanger! Hogan is in so much trouble...just not the way he thinks!

Thanks so much for reading! Reviews are appreciated!


	3. Plot, plot, fizz, fizz

**Luck of the Draw**

Thanks for coming back! I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Summary: What if Hogan and his men knew they were characters in fanfiction? How would they deal with it? And what would they do if an author threw their universe into chaos?

* * *

"Very well," General Burkhalter replied even as he waved a meaty paw towards Klink's office. "Show me." Without another word he and the Gestapo officer walked into the building. Two muscular SS guards, appearing out of nowhere, grabbed Colonel Hogan by the arms and propelled him up the stairs.

As expected, Burkhalter tortured Klink's leather chair while everyone else stood. The guards, now dismissed, took up station outside the office. "Your evidence," the large man snapped, getting to business.

Hochstetter moved to open the briefcase…then paused. "General," the officer began, his tone full of sneering pride. "What I have in this briefcase will prove once and for all that this man…" He turned and raised a finger towards the enemy officer's chest.

"…is none other than the most dangerous man in Germany. A man that we have been trying to unmask for quite some time. This," he bellowed, clearly enjoying the moment of victory, "is the one, and only…"

"…Papa Smurf!"

For a moment, silence reigned before Burkhalter's loud laughter echoed against the walls.

"Papa Smurf," he gasped between chuckles. "Hochstetter, have you lost your mind?"

"Papa Smurf?" the Gestapo man repeated, puzzled at his own words before his face turned red. "What…no!" he shouted, regaining control before slicing the air with his finger yet again.

"He's Papa Johns!"

"I wouldn't mind some pizza," Colonel Hogan mentioned, amused. "I'm not related to him though."

Burkhalter, his chest heaving from the nonstop humor, was unable to offer comment. The sight was enough to enrage the already infuriated Major.

"NO!" Hochstetter screamed yet again before his wildly shaking fist met the Colonel's leather jacket. The light blow did nothing to reduce the Colonel's mile-a-minute smile. "He's Papa…" Try as he might, he couldn't say the last word.

"Is it animal, vegetable or mineral?" Hogan quipped. A fresh wave of laughter from the General caused the security officer to visibly snarl and bare his teeth in rage.

"I have evidence!" he screamed, moving toward the briefcase. Eyes, burning with hatred, bored into those of his hated enemy.

"You are Papa…Papa…" he struggled, trying to finish the phrase. At that moment music filled the room seconds before the man's mouth unglued itself:

 _"Papa was a rolling stone…"_

Horrified, Hochstetter slapped both hands over his musically malfunctioning mouth. The sight was too much for the corpulent _Heer_ officer as he lost control and, still howling, tottered onto the floor.

"WAIT!" the Major finally burst out, fumbling with the briefcase lock. "I have the evidence right here!" Suddenly, before he could open the case, Hochstetter vanished from existence.

The laughter died abruptly as the two remaining inhabitants froze at the sight of the empty air. Slowly, they looked at each other. "I wonder…" General Burkhalter mused as he pushed himself to his feet.

"What's that, sir?"

The senior officer motioned toward where Hochstetter had been standing. "Could that…happen to one of us?" He looked slightly shaken, if not a little green, at the prospect of nonexistence. Before Hogan could answer there was a knock at the door.

"Enter!" Burkhalter rang out.

The Luftwaffe guard from earlier came into the room and saluted. "General Burkhalter," he began. "We've searched the camp. Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz are nowhere to be found. All vehicles are accounted for." Conveniently – or so Hogan thought – the guard left out the part about the Mercedes and the strange blonde woman from that morning.

 _Can't blame him. I have a hard time believing it myself._

"WHAT?" General Burkhalter thundered, causing the young guard to flinch. "They have to be here. Either that, or they've deserted! Search the camp again and send a patrol into town to find them!" he screamed. The guard - not much more than a boy, Hogan thought - was barely able to throw a ragged salute before fleeing the room.

"We've got bigger worries than that, General," the Senior POW offered, keeping his voice calm around the steaming superior.. "What happens to the plot if those two are missing from the story? There's no comic relief! Not to mention the antagonist is gone!"

The German waved the concerns away. "As of this moment I'm assuming command of Stalag 13," Burkhalter formally intoned. "We'll deal with those problems later." He looked at Hogan with a stern eye. "You're dismissed, Hogan."

The Colonel saluted. As he turned to leave, his left hand smoothly grabbed the briefcase handle. He was almost to the door when he heard Burkhalter sound off again.

"Wait!" he brusquely ordered. "Let me see that briefcase." Reluctantly, Hogan complied and walked back to the desk. His mind raced as he considered his next moves—

 _-knock Burkhalter out._

 _-take the briefcase._

 _\- blow the tunnel_

 _-get to England_

 _-kiss the author_

At that, the officer looked up at the ceiling. _'Nice try,'_ he thought.

General Burkhalter grabbed the case from Hogan's suddenly sweaty hand.

"Sit down, Hogan," he growled.

"I'd rather stand-"

"I said SIT DOWN!" the man thundered. The impact of the command tone slammed into the recipient with thunderous force. Reluctantly, he lowered himself into one of the nearby chairs and watched the temporary Kommandant flip the case around.

A staccato series of _cracks_ from the opening locks reverberated around the room before the lid opened. From his vantage point Colonel Hogan was unable to see the contents. It was enough, however, to watch the eyes of the older man widen in surprise. Inwardly, he tensed.

 _My chances of knocking Burkhalter out before he calls for help: 50%, he thought._

 _My chances of getting past the guards outside: 20%_

 _Getting home..._

 _0% Or, more specifically, 0.002546% if you ask any pointy-eared Vulcans._

As a last parting thought he cursed the author with words that, sadly for him, would never be written in his rapidly dwindling lifetime. Suddenly, General Burkhalter fixed him with a serious glare.

"Somehow, I'm not surprised," he said softly, if not knowingly. "As a matter of fact, I should have expected this." The German shook his head. "For a long time I've suspected the worst about you. And now, I have the proof!"

The Colonel steeled his shoulders and sat up ramrod straight. His eyes glanced at the hidden microphone on the wall.

 _I'm dead,_ he decided. _They know what's going on. By now they should be ready to blow the tunnel. With a little bit of luck they'll get away._

 _All I can do now is to buy them time..._

"What's that, sir?" he managed to force out while appearing seemingly relaxed. Burkhalter looked up, his eyes twinkling with hidden humor, before he lifted a piece of multicolored cloth into view. The American, utterly stunned, registered the lacy item with disbelieving eyes.

"That you are red, white and blue," the General smiled leeringly. "Right down to your panties."

* * *

An embarrassed and somewhat relieved Colonel Hogan left the Kommandant's office some ten minutes later. The briefcase, oddly enough, was packed with assorted lingerie. Fortunately, the American was able to convince his captor that the underthings were not his and that the 'R.E. Hogan' labeled on the inside of the bras was nothing more than some elaborate - if not bizarre - plot by Hochstetter to discredit him.

 _I'm sure he believes it too,_ he sourly thought. _That is, if he'll ever stop laughing long enough..._

Hogan wondered if the briefcase was nothing more than a plot device written by the author.

 _What was its real purpose?_ he wondered. _To lend credence to Hochstetter's story? Some kind of gag? If so, where's the Major? Wouldn't it have been better to have him open it?_

 _For that matter, where did he disappear to? Will he come back or be gone for the rest of the story? More, will the Krauts find my personal stash of unmentionables—_

He paused, midthought, as he considered the words that had just passed through his head.

 _Stop that!_ he mentally chided the unseen author. For a moment he could have sworn he heard a distinctly feminine giggle—

-and then it was gone.

 _Women_ , he thought sourly before a grin crossed his handsome face. _Maybe you can't live with them, but you gotta love them! More or less._ He chuckled. _Then again, look on the bright side. Hochstetter's gone. Klink's gone. We can't get to the radio so there's no missions from London. In a way, we're on vacation._

He stopped just short of the barracks door. _Now, if the author will just draw us a beach and a romantic sunset…_

He closed his eyes for a brief moment.

Without warning, a hot gust of wind breezed past his face and body. Salt air, cool and tangy, entered his lungs as he breathed deeply and opened his eyes to find…

…the front wall of the barracks. No beach was in sight.

 _Oh, well,_ he thought. _It was a good try._

He reached out and opened the wooden door before stepping inside. As his sight adjusted he was acutely aware of a dozen eyes on him.

"Something wrong, fellas?" he said casually, if not curiously.

No one said anything for a moment. The Colonel wondered what was going on; everyone, for the lack of a better word, looked _shocked._ Finally, Kinch's deep voice broke the stillness.

"Colonel," he began reluctantly. "I hate to say this but…you're out of uniform."

"What?" Hogan said. "I'm not…" Even as he said the words he looked down.

Immediately, he wished he hadn't.

Horrified, he realized that his uniform was gone. Except for a thin strip of cloth between his legs – Hogan couldn't even charitably call it a bathing suit – he was naked. At that moment he looked upward at the ceiling.

"Good one," he muttered, now red faced, to the unseen author. In defiance, he took a short bow. "And I guess you'll describe—" He was cut off as a large bucket materialized into existence near his right arm. The American, immediately guessing what was coming next, tried to duck out of the way but was unsuccessful as a light oily substance coated the exposed areas of his body. Words then formed in the air above the men.

 _The Colonel, all man from head to toe, stood unabashedly as a glistening Greek god in front of his men. His hard chest, coupled with his manly six-pack abs—_

"I don't have a six pack!" Hogan pointed out, unable to escape now that the author had frozen him in place. In response, he felt his abdomen tighten. Horrified, the Colonel looked on as his midsection reformed into that of a bodybuilder.

 _-was enough to set the author's heart aflutter as she let her eyes roam across his manly physique. For a moment she imagined being held in his strong and muscular arms—_

The Colonel's eyes bulged outward as his arms correspondingly grew into miniature tree trunks.

"Blimey," Newkirk muttered, shocked at the humiliating display. "She has a thing for him, doesn't she?"

 _-before letting her hand drop down his firm back towards his—_

"Hey!" Hogan yelled, stopping the description in mid-stride. "Do you know what the word 'dignity' means? Do you?!" he chided. Suddenly, he was able to move freely before he glared at the ceiling. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get dressed. Any objections?"

Silence greeted his words.

"Good," the Colonel said. "If you'll excuse me…" With that he casually strode toward the door of his quarters. As he crossed the threshold he yelped and jumped forward. Another light girlish chuckle greeted his stony glare before he slammed the panel closed.

"Bugger," the RAF Corporal breathed. "Nothing worse than a woman lording it over you. And to do that to the Colonel…" He shook his head, clearly disgusted.

"Looks like the love scenes are out," LeBeau observed before his face turned sour. "You don't think the author will write herself in, will you? A Mary Sue?"

"Don't know," Kinch shuddered. "I hope not. Guess we'll have to wait and see." He made a face at the thought. "She could have given him something decent to wear," he groused

"Or something with a backside," Newkirk commented before a dry chuckle escaped his throat.

"Something funny?" LeBeau asked in a dark tone. His friend merely grinned.

"I was just thinking," he said. "That thing he was wearing…it put a whole new definition on being cheeky."

"To treat a man like that," LeBeau hissed through gritted teeth. "We never did that to the women on this show!"

"Yeah, but we were playing a show set in the 1940's by guys living in the 1960's," the radioman reminded him. "Now we're a 1940's show being written by women and men in 2016." He shook his head. "They're a bit different now. The ladies don't wear dresses, for starters."

"No dresses," repeated another of the unseen barracks extras, his voice clearly sick at the thought. "What kind of world is that when you can't admire a dame's legs going down the street?"

"No kiddin'" another man said. "You've even got a skirt running for President now! You know, it's a sad day when a broad's gotta get in man's politics instead of staying home to fix bacon and eggs—"

Suddenly, there was a loud pop before the voices ceased. The regular cast looked at the empty air the now-departed extras once occupied.

"That's 'No-Name' and Sergeant 'Hey You!' for you," Kinch observed. "Guess their mouths got them into trouble." He shook his head. "They should have known better."

Newkirk grimaced. "I'd rather bloody well go home if it's all the same to you," the RAF corporal groused, long lines on his face. "We've been at this too long." Just then the Colonel, now dressed in his normal uniform, reappeared. He pointed at the ceiling before putting a finger to his lips.

"Hochstetter's missing," he announced although the other men already knew. "The author took him somewhere. Even worse, Burkhalter is now in charge."

"Where she'd send him to, Colonel?" Carter asked.

"No idea," Hogan admitted. "It's trouble for us, though. Burkhalter has got two roles to play now. Either bad cop or good cop. At this point I don't know which way the story will go."

Corporal LeBeau made a _ppphhhh_ sound with his lips. "Authors," he muttered. "We can do without them."

"Louie…" Newkirk began.

"NO" the Frenchman thundered. "It's not right! I can't even speak French in this story because the author doesn't speak French!" A look of physical pain passed across his face before he continued. "No one tells me what to do!" he screamed. Suddenly, he leaped up from the wooden bench and faced the ceiling. "DO YOU HEAR ME?" he yelled to their author/tormentor. "YOU DON'T CONTROL ME!"

Silence greeted his words. Red faced, and with his point made, LeBeau stepped off the bench.

"There," he declared. "That'll show—"

At that moment he was cut off as a wild and strange music filled the air of the barracks. It was unlike anything the men had heard before.

"Oh, bloody hell…" Newkirk muttered sourly. "You just had to go and set her off, didn't you?"

At that moment LeBeau's brown and red uniform disappeared. In its place was something that Hogan had difficulty comprehending: an Indian outfit complete with headdress.

"What?..."

"Colonel, look at what you have on!" Kinch pointed. Hogan glanced down and groaned as he saw that his clothes were gone again. This time he was wearing a pair of blue jeans, an overly tight white t-shirt and…. He raised his hand upward.

 _A hard hat?_

Kinch's green uniform was switched out for an outfit of navy blue. A police badge gleamed on his chest. Newkirk couldn't resist a chuckle.

"Always did picture you as a copper, mate," he joked. The black NCO looked at him with unamused eyes.

"Better than what you're wearing," his friend retorted.

The RAF corporal looked down and was horrified to discover that his blue uniform had vanished. A shiny leather outfit greeted his eyes.

"Hold on!" he called to the ceiling. "What the—"

The rest of the sentence was cut off as the men were forced into a single line. Sergeant Carter, grinning at his new cowboy outfit, pumped his fist in the air several times moments before the group began to sing—

* * *

 _[Scene muted. Suddenly, the author herself appears in a offstage cutscene. Although tempted to join in on the fun she keeps her non-Mary-Sue pledge.]_

 _[Greetings! Had there been an actual song you would have seen the guys strutting to the tune of 'Macho Man' by the Village People. I would have described how Hogan's flimsy t-shirt burst apart while dancing or how good Newkirk looks in tight leather pants. Sadly, due to fanfiction dot net rules, I can't write the lyrics. Oh sure, I wrote one line for Wolfgang but that was just a gag._

In the background, the men strut in unison and spin around several times while singing. Not a sound is heard.

 _[So sad, really. This would have also included a video of the guys pumping weights while wearing only skimpy shorts and no shirts. A few extra muscles here, some oil there on a chest or two and…oh well! Can't have everything!_ ]

 _[Thank you for your kind attention! We now return you to the story.]_

* * *

The men, their proper uniforms returned, collapsed to the ground exhausted.

"She's mad, she is…" gasped Newkirk, his lungs heaving. Beside him LeBeau tried to regain his breath.

"English…she must be English," he panted. The Englishman fixed him with a stony glare.

"And just why is that?"

"Because no Frenchwoman would do this to a man like me," his friend said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Therefore, she must be English!"

Newkirk snorted, then laughed at the idiotic idea. "Have you ever thought she's just playing around with you, you ruddy idiot?"

"Knock it off," Colonel Hogan ordered before LeBeau could respond. "We've got bigger problems." He slowly stood up and stretched, wincing as several joints popped. "First, there's no plot to this story." He glanced at the ceiling for a brief moment. "Secondly, we have no idea what the author wants us to do. And since she's new we have no idea who she is."

"We can't get to the radio," Kinch added. "Plus, Klink's gone. So is Schultz." He furrowed his brow in thought. "Hey, what happened to him anyway?"

None of the men had a ready answer.

* * *

 _Meanwhile, somewhere in the South Pacific…_

 _"More chocolate, darling?"_

 _"Don't mind if I do."_

 _Sergeant Schultz – now just plain old Hans Schultz, tourist – gleefully consumed the piece of Hershey's candy his bikini clad companion gave him before he sighed in contentment. The rays of the warm sun overhead shone on his pasty legs while the rest of his body relaxed underneath a voluminous beach umbrella._

 _The blue waters of the ocean beyond the white surf made Stalag 13 seem like a distant dream. A nightmare, even. One minute he was cold and tired and the next moment someone was offering him a steak sandwich. The memory of the delicious delight made his mouth water once more. Just then he spotted a red-jacketed waiter gliding across the white sandy beach before stopping at his lounger._

 _"What would you like today, sir?" he politely asked. "Our special today is the New York Strip, served to perfection by our award winning chefs, followed by baked potatoes, freshly made rolls and your choice of ice cream."_

 _The sergeant's face lit up in sheer happiness. "You couldn't make that two steaks, could you?" he asked hopefully. "And an order for this lovely fräulein?"_

 _"But of course…"_

* * *

 _Back at Stalag 13…_

"Wait a minute!" Peter Newkirk thundered, peeking back at the last few lines. "He gets to sit on a beach with a beautiful woman while we freeze?" He shuddered theatrically. "That's not fair, it is," he moaned theatrically.

"Like I said, we're at the mercy of our author," Colonel Hogan announced. "All we can hope is that she'll give us a fair plot. Not that I miss Klink that much." The men chuckled. "However, even humor stories have plots."

"This could be a plot already," Kinch pointed out. "It may be something we haven't seen before."

"Why don't we just ask her for a plot?" Carter queried. "Has anyone tried that?"

"Carter," Newkirk began, "Are you daft? Or do you want to dance again?" He started to say more before the Colonel held up his hand.

"Wait a minute," he said, thinking. "He's right. We haven't asked. We've just been waiting around." He looked up at the ceiling and drew in a deep breath. "So, what do you want us to do?" he inquired

Silence.

"Mind if I try, Colonel?" Carter asked.

Hogan shrugged. "Go ahead. What else do we have to lose?"

"Um…excuse me, ma'am…" the young man began, a faint blush on his cheeks. "Could you please give us something to do? That is the point of the story, right?"

More silence. Colonel Hogan was about to speak when suddenly the thunderous sound of multiple trumpets filled the room. At that moment five large brown envelopes popped out of thin air before landing with a heavy *slap* on the center table. American, English and French eyes then watched as a small piece of folded paper fluttered downward from the ceiling before coming to rest on the rough wood of the table.

Hogan, his curiosity aroused, picked up the white sheet and opened it. "It's from the author," he said, stating the obvious. "She said the mission in our packet is the start of our plot."

"About bloody time!" Newkirk growled.

"If we don't complete what's in there," the officer motioned towards the large envelopes, "she'll stop the story and put it on her 'I'll work on it later pile.' Everyone shuddered.

"There's nothing worse than an unfinished story," LeBeau said mournfully. "A fine plot comes along and then just…" He made a flat motion with his hand across his neck.

"We've all been there," Kinch sighed. "Remember that one story where that author set up a harem in the tunnel?"

"Oh, yeah!" Carter piped in even as a slight tinge of red touched his white cheeks. "And then she had the Colonel winning the war singlehandedly with those…what did she call them again?"

"Bionic arms, mate," his English friend answered. "Powerful ones, they were. She had him throwing tanks around like Superman!"

"Well, that was a good story," the young sergeant said before his brows furrowed. "So why didn't she finish it?"

"Because," Hogan said, "I think she lost interest after she had Hochstetter dance on stage in a pink ballerina outfit. Kind of hard to top that one." All of the men agreed on that one. "However, we need to make sure this story is marked as 'complete.' Especially if we want it to be counted for next year's Papa Bear Awards!"

"We sure do!" Sergeant Carter burst out. "Gee, maybe this isn't such a bad idea after all!" His face then turned thoughtful. "I really liked that cowboy outfit, too," he said. "Do you think if I asked she'd let me keep t?"

"Carter," Newkirk groaned. He started to say something more but Hogan stopped him before holding up one of the packets.

"Well, gentlemen," he intoned formally, though with a smile on his lips. "Time to get to work." He opened his packet and immediately grimaced.

"What is it, Colonel?" Kinch asked. The Senior Prisoner of War sighed before he glanced over at his second in command.

"Do you think it's too late to get ballerina Hochstetter back?" he wondered.

* * *

 _Author's notes: I'm sure the guys will get a plot...eventually...(laughs hysterically). Yeah, right!_

 _I updated chapter 2 due to some minor errors that my beta pointed out. Sorry! Also, I was asked if this story had any Star Trek: Deep Space Nine characters. The answer is no - again, sorry! However, my beta asked me to pass along the message that they do have a complete (still needs lots of work) story involving Colonel Hogan, Quark and 1947 Roswell if you're interested._

 _Thanks for reading! Don't forget to leave a review if you have time!_


	4. Plans and sales

**Luck of the Draw**

Thanks for reading - I hope you like it!

Summary: What if Hogan and his men knew they were characters in fanfiction? How would they deal with it? And what would they do if an author threw their universe into chaos?

* * *

 ** _Colonel's Log, Stalag Date 3.29.44_**

 _The crew is on the verge of mutiny._

 _We continue to be tormented by the latest 'mission' assigned by our current author. Morale is at an all time low. Still, I'm proud of my men._

 _Sometimes I wonder how we've survived so far. Most of the stories we've found ourselves in have been good ones. Others…not so much. We've had original series and author-created characters torture us in one way or another. We've endured countless missions where something has always gone wrong. Even some of the funny stories have parings between male characters that I'd rather not mention. Ever._

 _And now, we face our most challenging mission yet. Another game of skill and evasion, this time on paper._

 _Taxes._

 _It's bad enough that we're having to file our current taxes. However, the author is also making us file back returns and – believe it or not – German taxes as well. Our antagonist, for that is what she truly is, gave us no reason for doing so._

 _The only silver lining in all of this is Andrew Carter. Somehow he has the ability to look at any page of the tax code – American, British, German or French – and summarize that portion into words we can understand._

 _I suspect – no, rather I know – the author somehow gave him this ability as well as read French and German. Even so, it's frustrating. Our author has failed to provide us with any kind of real plot so far. At this point I have to wonder if she is...well, insane, to put it bluntly. If she's not, then what. is. her. angle? Why, in. the. name. of. God, is. she. writing. us. like. this? Even. more, why. am. I. writing. and. speaking. in. a. classic. hackneyed. parody. of. William. Shatner. speaking. each. word. as. a. complete. sentence—_

Colonel Hogan put his pen down and closed the logbook before he looked up at his men. Newkirk, head bowed, stared morosely at his tax forms.

"She's making me report all me earnings," he groused. "Everything! Even the bits I nicked legally! That's not fair!"

LeBeau nodded. "Who can remember everything?" he hissed before he threw a glare at the wooden ceiling. "What kind of author enjoys all this?"

"Careful," warned Kinch. "You know what could happen if we make her angry…"

The Frenchman said nothing in reply though his scrowl said otherwise.

"Do you feel that?" Hogan suddenly asked as a subtle shift _rippled_ through the tense air. Everyone stopped and looked up.

After a moment the resident radioman nodded. "Yeah," he breathed. "She's no longer watching us." He cocked his head slightly. "I have the feeling she's working on Major Hochstetter's part of the story."

"Hopefully she gives him hell," the RAF corporal said, his spirits perking up. "What does that mean for us?"

"It means we can use the radio," Colonel Hogan said, rising to his feet.

"But what good will that do us, Colonel?" Sergeant Carter asked. "I mean, she's writing the story. Won't she also write that part too?"

"Not necessarily," the Senior POW answered, a plan forming in his deviously fiendish mind. "Right now, we're writing our own lines."

"Right now?" Carter said, confused.

"Right now," Hogan confirmed.

"So what I'm saying now is what I'm saying now," Kinch inquired. "Not what was said then, but right now."

The Colonel nodded. "You've got it," he nodded before he looked back at his explosives expert. Suddenly, a look of comprehension flashed in the latter man's eyes.

"Oh, I get it!" the bright-eyed Sergeant said. "So we can call her a jerk!"

Everyone cringed, but nothing happened.

"A pain in the butt?" Kinch offered.

Still nothing.

"Let's call her what she is," Newkirk spat. "She's a bloody _(bleep)."_

The sharp sound startled them all. As one, they whirled around to look at the source.

"Newkirk!" Hogan snapped. The enlisted man looked down at the table.

"Sorry, Guv'nor," he mumured, slowly but unapologetically. "It was worth a try." After a moment Hogan nodded.

"Still, we don't use that kind of language. Ever!" He leveled a narrowed glare upon a chastened Newkirk. "Thank God we're a family show," he continued. "If we hadn't been, and that curse word had gotten out…" He let his voice trail off into a chilly silence before he spoke again.

"We don't have much time," he explained. "The tunnel is probably unguarded right now since she's not there to write that part. If we can get to the radio we might be able to contact another author. And if they can talk to her…"

"Then they might be able to get her to write a decent plot! Or at least fix everything!" Newkirk finished, a smile on his cheerful face. "That's brilliant, Colonel. You'd have to be careful, though," he warned. "Some of those authors are pretty chummy. Who would you get to talk to her?"

The Colonel looked at his second-in-command. "Got any ideas, Kinch? We might need a backup too if it comes to it." The radioman nodded and produced a worn notebook from his jacket. After a moment he found the page he was looking for. "This one," he rumbled, pointing at one of the ink lines.

All of the men looked at the name:

 _ **Snooky-9093**_.

"She's probably the best of the lot," Newkirk said approvingly. "As far as authors go, anyway." The men nodded in agreement.

"I've heard nothing but good things about her. A fine choice!" LeBeau said, his voice now energized.

"Yeah, so have I!" Carter offered. "I also heard she was voted by faked fanfiction factoids dot com as 'Most likely to lead an armed revolt against future President Trump!'"

"She's the one, then," Kinchloe said before his expression grew solemn. "But how are you going to get past all of those Jar Jar Binks things?"

"I have just the thing," Hogan said before he ducked into his quarters. After a minute he reappeared with a strange long slivery object that looked straight out of a Flash Gordon serial. "It's the Jar Jar Binks Exterminator!" he crowed, holding the weapon up for closer inspection. "I've been working on it in my spare time."

"Now wait a minute, Colonel!" Sergeant Kinchloe broke in. "I know for a fact that you haven't had any spare time in this story. So how could you have made something like that?"

"That's true," LeBeau said, finally realizing the obvious plot elephant in the room. "Where did it come from?"

The Colonel released a long breath. "Well, I wasn't going to say anything but...I had some help."

"Kinch is right, Colonel," Carter interjected before he held up the 'work-in-progress' story script. "The only time you were alone was when you were in your quarters," he pointed out. "And that was right before the Jar Jar Binks scene. You weren't in there for more than a few minutes."

"Well, I was contacted by someone that wanted to remain anonymous," Hogan explained, avoiding the time issue for the moment. "Usually he doesn't touch guns at all but he hates Jar Jar as much as we do. So, he helped us out and well..." The officer shrugged and held up the rifle. "Here you go."

He held up a hand as he saw mouths open to object. "The author didn't update the story immediately," he said. "We built it in the space between chapters two and three."

"Seems like it would have taken more than a day, Colonel," the black man replied, still doggedly intent on solving the mystery. "Who's the 'we'?"

The American sighed. "One word," he offered reluctantly. "TARDIS."

"Ah..." the second-in-command replied, raising an eyebrow. "But we didn't hear..."

"Of course not," Hogan replied. "You can't hear anything in fan fiction. At least, not until the sound is written in."

"True enough," the radioman nodded.

"So why didn't we get to meet him?" LeBeau asked, clearly disappointed. "It's not every day you get to meet the Doctor!" His face suddenly brightened. "Was it number 10?" he asked hopefully. "Did you get his autograph?"

"Nothing doing," Kinch broke in, pointing at the rifle. "Only the 11th Doctor could have come up with that! He's sneaky!"

"You're all wrong," Newkirk broke in, clearly miffed. "It would have had to have been the best doctor of all: Four, played by the one and only Tom Baker!"

Colonel Hogan looked slightly embarrassed. "It wasn't any of those guys," he said in a sheepish voice. "The Ninth Doctor showed up."

The men looked at each other for a moment. "Oh..." the men all groaned at once, finally understanding. "That explains everything!" LeBeau exclaimed.

"No wonder you didn't bring him out, then!" the Englishman said. "Bad lot, that was..."

Kinch turned his attention back to the slivery weapon. "So what does it do?" he asked, curious.

"It's not your ordinary gun," he smiled. "For starters, it doesn't use bullets. You remember that crossover we had a while back? The one where that author took us to the future?"

Everyone nodded.

"Watch." He pointed the muzzle at a conveniently placed tin can sitting on the wooden table. A purple flash of light erupted from the end of the rifle and disintegrated the metal container along with part of the upper surface.

Newkirk let out a low whistle. "That'd certainly take care of those _things_ ," he marveled before his face turned eager. "We won't have any problems getting to the radio now! How does it work?"

"It shoots out a bolt of phased plasma in the 40 watt range," the Colonel explained. "I'm not sure what that exactly means but it works." He lifted the weapon to a loose port arms position before his hand tapped a hidden switch on the side. Instantly a set of whirring saws and sharp blades jabbed forward, searching for a target. "It also slices and dices, too!" he yelled above the noise of the attachments. "Perfect for those times when you're too close to shoot!'

"Nice!" LeBeau said wonderingly, excitement dancing in his dark eyes at the thought of returning to a real plot-filled story.

"But wait! There's more!" Hogan exclaimed before he reached into his jacket pocket. "Buy one now and I'll throw in this smaller version!" With a flourish he held up a small silvery item that looked like an undernourished pistol. "This is the Discotator! Fire it at someone and they'll boogie uncontrollably to your favorite disco beat before they're done in by the dreaded Saturday Night Fever! And these babies can both be yours for just $999.99!"

The other men looked him uncomfortably. "Colonel, are you feeling all right?" Kinch asked. Hogan, for his part, had a glazed look in his eyes as he continued his sales spiel.

"Of course!" the Colonel shot back, unfazed. "I've never felt better in all my life! And I owe it all to my boomstick!" the POW yelled, lifting the rifle into the air with his left arm. "So remember, folks, you saw it here first!" he shouted out in his manly voice. "And it's only available at S-Mart! Buy Smart – Shop S-Mart!" He leveled a narrowed glare on the crowd. "You got that?"

At that moment Hogan seemed to regain control. Embarrassed, he quickly lowered the rifle to the floor. "What was that?" he whispered before he sagged into a nearby chair. "It was like I was…someone else." He looked around. "I didn't feel her though…"

"She must have been watching _Army of Darkness_ , Colonel," the black radioman said, reasoning it out. "She's not working on our part of the story but the movie was in her thoughts."

"Yeah," Hogan considered, nodding in agreement before he stood up. After a moment he lifted the rifle. "We'll need to hurry," he said as fresh confidence returned to his voice. "If we can't contact this Snooky author – or anyone else, for that matter - then we're toast. Kinch, LeBeau, you're with me," he ordered. "Carter, keep a lookout in case someone shows up. Newkirk, stay at the top just in case."

"Gotcha," the Sergeant said before he went to the wall periscope. Newkirk said nothing but the concern was evident in his eyes.

"God help us," the Colonel muttered as he looked at his men. "Let's go." Without another word he hit the secret switch for the trapdoor and slung the rifle over his shoulder before descending into the inky darkness.

 _What happened to Hochstetter? Will the Colonel and his men survive the terror that awaits them in the tunnel? Will Carter ever get rid of the 'Never-B-Gone' shoe polish eye rings the author put on the eyepiece of the periscope? These questions and more may be answered on the next installment of…_

 ** _….As the Hogan Turns…_**

[Cue cheesy soap opera music]

* * *

 _Sorry - don't flame me! My beta threw the Doctor Who part in but they're not a big fan of that one Doctor for some reason. Don't ask why. I try not to._

 _Thanks for taking a look!_


	5. Famous stars of a sort

**Luck of the Draw**

Thanks for reading!

Summary: What if Hogan and his men knew they were characters in fanfiction? How would they deal with it? And what would they do if an author threw their universe into chaos?

* * *

 _Meanwhile, in never-never land..._

Major Wolfgang Hochstetter was, to say the least, confused. Or at least hallucinating.

One moment he had been on the verge of proving that Colonel Hogan was the elusive Papa Bear. His teeth, already worn, ground together once more in anger at just *thinking* the name.

And then, everyone vanished.

At first he had wondered if he was the victim of some obscene practical joke. That all changed when he stepped out into the compound. The guard towers, barracks and other structures stood as they always had.

However, to his dismay, the population of the camp - from the guards on down - were missing. A quick search of the nearby buildings revealed steaming mugs of foul tasting coffee, letters halfway written, and in Hilda's case a typewriter stopped midway on a requisition form. His hasty calls to the Hammelburg Gestapo and various SS and Army commands had gone unanswered.

It was, quite simply, something that made no sense. And one that left an ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 _Am I dead?_ he wondered, a cold chill passing through his tattered soul. _Is this hell?_

He stepped into the barren compound again. _And if I am, then...what happens now?_

A cold gust of wind flowed around his body before proceeding to parts unknown. A blur out of the corner of his left eye suddenly caught his attention. He had just turned in that direction when a white object slapped him in the face. He pulled the offending object away before blinking in surprise.

It was a copy of a newspaper.

In English.

The evidence for that was the headline in large _'The world is ending! Run! Run now!'_ linotype: **LAST MAN ON EARTH!** Below that was a formal picture of him in his Gestapo Major's uniform.

 _What is this?_

Even more, the stories in the paper concerned one Wolfgang Hochstetter. His career. Successes. Failures. Love life. A red hue of rage rose on his cheeks as another photo, this one on the inside pages, touched his eyes.

 _Where did they get that photo of my tattoo from?_ he seethed. He had taken great pains to make sure that particular area made it into his medical files, much less anywhere else!

 _One night,_ he reflected sourly. _One night that could have ruined my career - and my life - when I had too much to drink. I should have never taken that dare and had 'I heart Adolf' tattooed onto my arse..._

But who, he wondered, printed the paper? If they did, he obviously wasn't the last man on earth! All he had to do was find the writer and get answers-

At that moment another speeding missile popped into view before hitting him in the face. Another copy of the same paper greeted his eyes. This time, there was a new addition. A yellow square of paper stuck to the front of the sheet, with an arrow pointing to the picture, had writing in black ink that read:

 **'That's you, moron.'**

Hochstetter looked at the masthead once more.

 _The Berlin Onion?_ He frowned. _I've never heard of them. It must be a joke paper put out by the prisoners._

 _But how did they get this information?_ He released the paper to the ever present wind and watched the thin sheets flutter across the ground.

 _The last man on earth. Hah! Like I'd believe such rubbish!_

 _But then, where is everyone?_

* * *

An hour later Hochstetter rolled his staff car back into the silent camp. He still couldn't grasp the fact that the town of Hammelburg was deserted. Even his mother was gone!

 _Not that that's a bad thing..._

"So, I'm the last man on Earth," he muttered. "And just what does that mean?" he called out.

Except for the moan of the stirring wind no one responded.

"When will everyone come back?"

No answers were forthcoming.

Frustrated, the Major kicked one of his car tires. A loud _bang_ caused him to jump back as the rubber suddenly pancaked and collapsed against the ground. He clenched his fists and tried counting to calm himself down.

 _One..two...three..._

It didn't work. Finally, the Gestapo officer let his famed temper loose.

"What is this?!" he yelled. "Who is doing this?!" He paused before letting the next flow of hot ire leave his mouth.

"I might be alone, but I will find you!" he vowed, screaming to the empty sky. "You will never escape my ring of steel! Never!" An evil sneer twisted his lips. "If I'm the last man," he spat, "then where's the last woman? At least you could have left me with someone appropriate. Perhaps a gorgeous brunette," he sneered.

More silence. Hochstetter, his anger unabated, started to turn away when he heard a strange sound over the sighing wind. It sounded like a high speed engine about to shred itself to pieces.

 _What is that?_ He whirled around in confusion; the sound seemed to be coming from everywhere-

-and a section of the Kommandantur literally _disintegrated_ as a whirling brown tornado cascaded through the ruins and dissipated. In its place stood a creature the Major had never seen before. It was brown and four feet tall. Enormous teeth, framed by huge lips slathered in pink lipstick, hung from its large mouth.

And it was looking straight at him.

"Darling!" the thing crooned.

At that moment Hochstetter started believing in God again. His jaw, rarely unclenched, fell loosely to its stops.

"What..." he managed to stutter out before the creature leapt up onto his torso and kissed him passionately.

"Me Tasmanian Devil!" it exclaimed before slathering his face with more wet love. "Me wife! You husband!"

With a burst of strength, the Major shoved the new arrival away. "No I'm not!" he snarled at the thing before he looked at the sky once more. "You could have given me a _human_ woman!" he screamed. His new companion looked at him with sad eyes.

"You no want Tassie?!" it yelled, jumping up and down in frustration. "Me wife!"

"No you're not!" Hochstetter growled, stepping back. "Get away from me!"

In response, large tears fell from the creature's eyes as she started to cry. Hochstetter, unaffected by female emotions, shook his head in disgust. The flow of water abated as a new emotion took hold in her dark beady orbs.

Rage.

"You no want me!" she screamed, narrowing her eyes. "I fix you!" With that, she started to spin into another tornado before launching herself at the man.

The target barely managed to sidestep the onrushing whirlwind and watched, stupefied, as the swirling cone tore its way through Barracks Two. Then it turned and came for him.

Hochstetter ran.

His black hat flew into the maelstrom as he ducked in and out of buildings in an effort to escape the pursuing menace. Timbers and other material shattered into wooden bits as the noisy tempest slammed through the structures to get to him. In desperation the Major leaped into his car and pressed the starter switch. The powerful engine tried to turn over but failed to catch.

 _What?_

And then he discovered why. The creature, now standing at the front of the car, twirled a contraption in its furred hand while flashing him an evil toothy grin. After a moment he belatedly realized what the object was.

 _The distributor cap!_

Just then the thing's teeth plunged downward and cut off a chunk of the chassis. Then another. Then another. In horror, Hochstetter realized that the creature was _eating_ its way toward him. Not even the engine block stopped its advance; a piston, spat out by the being, flew in the air some six feet before coming to rest in the cold dirt.

With newfound strength he leaped out of the car and ran towards another building. Suddenly, his frantic mind remembered the pistol in his pocket. It took him several tries before his nervous hand was able to whip it out. At that precise moment his fleeing feet stumbled over a hidden object. A mental curse sang in his mind as the weapon flew from his fingers and into the approaching hurricane.

 _No!_

Major Hochstetter's only chance - if any - was to get to the guard house and find a weapon. Any weapon. With his 'wife' close on his heels he changed tack and sped in that direction. Just before his racing heart and lungs exploded he opened the door to the building and plunged inside—

* * *

Slowly, Colonel Hogan descended into the tunnel and stopped midway down the ladder. To his surprise the tunnel was empty. The Jar Jar Binks clones were gone.

 _Where did they go?_

After a moment, he lowered himself to the ground and unshouldered the rifle. Kinch, following close behind, looked puzzled.

"I thought stuff lasted until the author got rid of it?" the man whispered. Hogan shrugged, not understanding it at all. Nothing seemed amiss, but...

 _Da-Dum._

Startled, the men whirled around. The deep two-tone sound echoed against the dirt walls before disappearing into nothingness.

"What was that?" LeBeau hissed. Hogan said nothing but held up his hand for quiet before he pointed the muzzle down the black tunnel. Oddly, the Colonel could have sworn that he felt a slight breeze caress his cheeks.

 _I'm jumpy,_ he reassured himself. _We all are-_

Just then another _'Da-Dum_ ' flowed past the men's ears. A hint of anticipation hung in the salty air-

Hogan stopped himself in mid-thought and took a deep breath. If he didn't know better he would swear he was smelling the ocean.

 _That's impossible!_

 _But with a rogue author on the loose..._

"I've got a bad feeling about this," he muttered.

Suddenly, a fat jet of seawater cascaded into the underground room. The tunnel, now rapidly flooding, was accompanied by an ominous music building in tempo. Colonel Hogan's mind, working overtime, finally realized the source of the haunting overture. Oddly, the description was spot on from the otherwise cheesy fanfic known as…

 _Jaws!_

"Land shark!" screamed LeBeau, pointing down the tunnel.

Colonel Hogan had just enough time to see an impossibly large set of pointed teeth coming his way. Dropping the rifle, he turned and vaulted up the ladder after his men.

"CLOSE IT! CLOSE IT NOW!" he yelled as he somersaulted over the wooden rail. An unseen hand slammed on the hidden panel, sending the bunk down before the floor beneath their feet vibrated. Then again.

As if the shark was trying to get _out…_

"Everyone out of the barracks!" the officer ordered. Most of the men didn't need to be told twice as a mad rush for the door ensued. Soon there was only Hogan and a grizzled Sergeant everyone called 'Skip.' The Colonel was about to wave him out before he noticed a lump in one of the bunks.

"Private Gilligan! Get up!" Hogan yelled. As if on cue the floor beneath their feet resounded with a dull 'bang.' The impact sent the men stumbling backwards even as the occupant of the bunk slowly woke up. The man, seemingly unaware of what was going on, looked curiously around the empty barracks.

"What's going on, Skip?" Gilligan asked sleepily before he stretched and yawned.

"There's no time, little buddy!" Skip barked. "We gotta get out of the barracks now! Run!" Gilligan, now wide awake, reflexively did as his friend asked and stepped forward.

Not that it did him any good.

At that moment the wooden floor burst upward underneath the young man's feet. Private Gilligan, his face a mask of terror, was completely swallowed by the gaping teeth that leaped from the tunnel below. Skip and Hogan, frozen in shock, watched mutely as the grey snout disappeared beneath the fragmented surface.

"Little buddy," Skip moaned before he took off his hat in respect.

Suddenly a flying red blur shot out of the hole and smashed through the ceiling.

"What the hell?..." Hogan said, finally finding his voice. He and Skip ran outside to see the private falling in an arc towards the fence.

"Gilligan!" Skip screamed, pointing at the wire. "He's falling towards the minefield!"

"The minefield...Oh, God!" Hogan exclaimed as the younger man's body dropped onto the roof of one of the guard towers. Slowly, too slowly, he slid downward off the angled surface. The Colonel, watching in horror, stood mutely as his charge fell to his certain death. Oddly, a large foam mattress mysteriously appeared on the ground beneath the limp figure moments before he hit the soft surface. Once its purpose was served the mattress sparkled and vanished from existence.

All of those watching rushed over to the fence in time to see Gilligan stand up, befuddled but alive. "Hey, Skip!" he shouted cheerfully, waving his right hand. "That sure was exciting!" At that moment he stepped forward.

"Gilligan!" Skip screamed. "You're standing in a-"

A horrendous explosion sent everyone flying for cover. When silence fell once more Hogan looked up. Gilligan was nowhere in sight. Only a large cloud of dust remained.

"Little buddy!" Skip moaned once more, a mournful expression on his large face. "I told him not to wear that red shirt-"

"Hey, Skip!" Gilligan said as he walked out of nowhere. With a dexterity that surprised Hogan the older man grabbed his friend in a bear hug. "But how did you survive?" he blurted out. "We saw you blown up!"

"Oh, yeah, that's easy," the younger man said. "I just leaped before the mine went off. And here I am!"

"Now hold on, that makes no sense!" Newkirk fumed, pointing at Gilligan. "By all rights you should be dead!"

"Yeah, I was," Gilligan replied. "But the author couldn't get rid of me. That'd turn all the readers off!"

"But what about the shark?" the Colonel asked, clearly confused.

"I can answer that," James 'Professor' Calhoun said, walking up. "It's a well known fact that Great Whites, or _Carcharodon carcharias_ , prefer other animals instead of humans. That, combined with the rubber in Gilligan's shoes, was enough to give the shark indigestion. Therefore, the shark threw up."

Colonel Hogan stared at the other POW for a moment. "That's about the stupidest thing I ever heard," he blurted. "On the other hand it makes more sense than some of the other crazy stuff going on around here."

"Besides, this is a 1960's television show," the private explained. "The good guys never die."***

"True enough," Kinch agreed while the other men nodded. "That's the last thing we need."

"He's right," Hogan nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he saw General Burkhalter approaching. "All right, fellas, break it up," he ordered. The men slowly dispersed as the acting Kommandant walked up.

"Colonel Hogan!" the General yelled, eyeing the smoking hole just outside the fence, "What is going on? What was that explosion?!"

"Just another escape attempt, General," the American said somewhat truthfully while allowing a mask of feigned bitterness to descend on his handsome features. "Unfortunately, it didn't work."

The general officer looked at one of the nearby guards who nodded in reply. The American officer sighed in relief.

 _How would you explain a shark in the middle of Germany?_

"Good!" Burkhalter spat before an evil smile crossed his fat lips. "However, that means someone will have to be punished." He fixed a set of narrow eyes on the enemy Colonel who leveled his own in response.

"Oh, come on General! The escape failed!" Hogan protested before he pointed a finger at Gilligan. "This man was just blown up! That should be punishment enough!"

"You are the senior officer in command, Colonel Hogan," General Burkhalter reminded him. "As such, you are ultimately responsible. Guards!"

Two blue-uniformed men stepped forward.

"Take him to the cooler!" Burkhalter ordered.

Hogan was about to protest when he felt his body gripped by an unseen yet powerful force. It, along with the guards, turned him around toward the camp prison just as the sound of the series trademark _'he's in trouble now'_ music rippled through the air. As he was unwillingly marched to the cooler he had just enough time to look over his shoulder and glare at the smug General before everything faded to black...

* * *

***Actually, that's untrue. There was one episode of Hogan's Heroes where a good guy did die. At this moment I'd like to take a moment of silence for that unknown figment of a writer's imagination...and for all the real ones that never made it home. God bless.


	6. Game show twists

**Luck of the Draw**

Thanks for coming back - I hope you have fun!

Summary: What if Hogan and his men knew they were characters in fanfiction? How would they deal with it? And what would they do if an author threw their universe into chaos?

* * *

 _When last we left Major Hochstetter..._

 _Major Hochstetter's only chance - if any - was to get to the guard house and find a weapon. Any weapon. With his 'wife' close on his heels he changed tack and sped in that direction. Just before his racing heart and lungs exploded he opened the door to the building and plunged inside—_

-and into pitch blackness as the door closed behind him. Suddenly a light, hot and bright, burned into his eyes as he desperately gasped for breath. As he raised his right hand to shield himself from the glare he heard a man's amplified voice yell:

"Welcome to America's most popular game show!" he declared. "Join us for..."

As if on cue, an unseen audience chanted:

"Wheel! Of! Misfortune!"

At that moment the spotlight faded as the house lights came on. To his surprise Major Hochstetter found himself standing on some sort of stage - at a podium, specifically - along with two other people. A colored wheel, festooned with various numbers, lay before him while a blocky lit-up wall and an audience lay beyond.

"And here's your host!" the invisible man continued. "General Jack O'Neill of Stargate SG-1!" Energetic clapping and cheers followed a handsome man as he walked across a stage to a decorated stand.

"Howdy, campers!" the host called out.

"Howdy, Jack!" the audience shot back.

"So..." Jack cast a bemused glance at the three contestants. "I'd ask you to tell me about yourselves but since you're all bit characters its not really important..."

"What is all of this?!" Major Hochstetter roared, back in form. "Where am I?" The host, unruffled, merely raised an eyebrow in response.

"Well, we all know who you are," he deadpanned. "Mr. Ring of Steel, I persume?" He ignored Hochstetter's narrowed eyes before he sighed and looked at the ceiling. "I guess the author will fill you in..."

And instantly a flood of rules filled the Major's mind. Suddenly, everything - from the lighted squares on the wall to the wheel before him - made sense. He could win money on this so-called game show. Prizes! Cars! Even...vacations!

For now, the Major decided to play along. "I'm fine," he growled, consciously trying to smile. He failed utterly but Jack didn't seem to notice.

"Allrighty, then," the host said before he spun the decorated wheel. "We'll start with..." Everyone watched as the wheel came to a shuddering stop. "$1,000"

 _ **Twenty minutes later...**_

"Sure you've never played this game before?" Jack asked. This time, Hochstetter's smile was genuine.

"Never," he breathed in satisfaction as he picked up the _'Fiji'_ placard off of the wheel.

"Nice luck," the former General offered. "Congratulations on winning all the prizes by the way! So, you ready for the final round?"

"I am!" the major said firmly, ignoring the nasty glares thrown his way by the other unfortunate contestants.

"Good." With that, Jack pressed a hidden button. A muted pair of screams slowly faded away as the trapdoors beneath Hochstetter's former competitors retracted back into place. The host merely grinned as the German belatedly jumped away from his podium.

"Saves time," he grinned. "They were just bit players anyway. I'm pretty sure one of them was a Goa'uld, too."

"Right," the Gestapo officer said unenuthastically. "And where did they go?"

"Take a guess," Jack said.

"Hmmm..." Hochstetter mused. "A free dinner and a night on the town?"

"Think cheaper."

"A free pass to the Museum of Uninteresting Art and a year's supply of Rice-A-Roni, the San Franscisco treat?" the German offered.

"Think more painful."

Hochstetter gasped in utter horror. "My God!" he exclaimed, disgust dripping from his icy tone. "You're going to suck out their souls and send them to be 'rah-rah' zombies at a Donald Trump rally! What kind of monster are you?!"

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Jack exclaimed, rolling his eyes. "We sent them to-" Suddenly, he cocked his head as he listened to his hidden earpiece. "We don't have time to explain, anyway," he finally said. "Are you ready for the final round?"

"The Gestapo is always ready for anything!" the Major snarled.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Right," he muttered sarcastically. "That _so_ explains why you've found the tunnel..."

"What?"

The tall man shook his head and let an innocent look settle over his face. "Nothing," he said, a small smile on his lips as he led the other man to the game board. The never-before-seen until now hostess stood by the unlit boxes.

"This is a phrase," Jack intoned. "Six words. You're supposed to choose five letters and one vowel."

Hochstetter looked at the board.

"Hmmm..." he muttered. "I'll choose...N...P...R...B...T..and H."

"And a vowel," the General prompted.

Hochstetter thought for a moment. "A," he finally said.

As Stanna Smythe changed the letters, the puzzle began to emerge.

_ A _

T H _

N _ T _ R _ _ _ _

P A P A

B_ A R

"You have one minute to solve the puzzle," Jack informed him. "Go." As the clock ticked away and Hochstetter concentrated, another announcer - this one speaking in a hushed tone heard by everyone in the audience and the world this side of Babylon 5 except for the contestant - came on the air:

"Unbeknownst to Major Hochstetter, we've brought in a squad of United States Marines for the final round," he began. "If Major Hochstetter fails to solve the puzzle he'll not only win the top cash prize of one hundred thousand dollars but he'll also receive an all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii with Ms Stanna Smythe! On the other hand, if he solves the puzzle he'll lose everything plus he'll be beaten to a pulp by the Marines! Why do you think we call it the Wheel of **MIS** -Fortune? And did you expect this to make any sense? Fortunately, I've been told that Mr. Hochstetter has excellent Obamacare insurance-"

The voice pauses, then resumes.

"My apologies," the whispered voice said. "The author failed to give him a plan. Too late now!"

"-and time's up!" Jack said. "Ready to solve the puzzle?"

The Major slammed his hands together with a resounding _slap_. "Ah, HAH!" he crowed. "I shall put a ring of steel* around this puzzle-"

"Oh, just solve it already!" the host exasperatedly exclaimed.

"-and I will!" Hochstetter thundered. "I AM THE NOTORIOUS PAPA BEAR" he yelled out triumphantly. Caught up in the excitement of his win he failed to realize what he was saying.

"And that's my exit," Jack said. "See ya!" Without warning, a shaft of light enveloped the man as he disappeared via an Asgard transporter beam.

"What..." the Major forced out, clearly stunned as he looked at the spot the host had vanished from. Just then he heard heavy _thuds_ echoing from behind. He turned around to see a green shirted wave, nightsticks clutched in beefy hands, moments before it broke upon him-

* * *

 _[scene fades to black as the author appears]_

 _Dear readers! At this point I would like to ask you to TAKE THE PLEDGE against the unnecessary gratuitous violence found in society today! Just repeat after me: I pledge that I will, to the best of my ability, prevent my characters from coming to harm-_

[Dimly, from the background, a scream is heard. The author ignores it]

 _-and will not engage in the unseemly fisticuffs so often shown for laughs on TV or elsewhere-_

[Hochstetter: My Liver!]

 _-since that does nothing more than to demean us as a whole. Instead, we should all learn to live in peace and harmony-_

[Hochstetter: No! My eyes! Not the eyes!]

 _-and strive to become truly productive members of the human race! So, won't you TAKE THE PLEDGE against unnecessary violence with me? You won't regret it!**_

 _**Disclaimer: For the record, I crossed my fingers when I took this pledge. Sorry, but I have no intention of living up to the words above with characters whose last names begin with 'H' and end in 'R" Valid in all 50 states and associated territories except in those states where it's still legal to duel over marrying your first cousin. Not everyone will be satisfied by the results. I sure won't._

 _*The term 'Ring of Steel' is a trademarked property of Ringco, a wholly owned subsidary of CircleSteel, which is owned by Hotch Industries, which belongs to HotAir, a figment of my own imagination. All rights unreserved. Don't you feel a bit silly after reading all of this?_

* * *

 _[Commercial break. An announcer, his voice on an 'Alvin and the Chipmunks' high combined with a tad too much of Mountain Dew, fills the air.]_

 _Are you sick of political commercials? Do you cringe when certain candidates appear on TV to say outlandish things? Does the current Republican and Democratic lineup make you want to give your American citizenship up and join ISIS?_

 _If so, Ignorthem_ (Moronus interruptus) _is right for you!_

 _Ignorthem works by suppressing key aspects of your memory's political cortical attention reflex. Long term patients have described the sensation of Ignorthem as being one of peace and prosperity._

 _Side effects of Ignorthem are numerous and should not be taken lightly. In particular, driving or operating heavy machinery on Ignorthem should be avoided. Patients on Ignorthem have reported an irrational urge to spontaneously sprout socialist slogans in social situations. Women who are pregnant, thinking about being pregnant and/or have an opinion on being pregnant should avoid looking at Ignorthem. Additionally, some cases of impromptu blackouts and running naked though the woods before ending up in your neighbor's hot tub have been reported. These cases are rare but have resulted in fast-moving lead pellets impacting with a patient's posterior. While on Ignorthem advise a doctor if you have the following symptoms: loss of appetite, vomiting, fever, and impure thoughts about Donald Trump. These symptoms are life-threatening and may require an adjustment in your medication._

 _Ignorthem...the political cure that might be right for you. Use as directed._

* * *

 _Meanwhile, back in Stalag 13..._

 _[Scene opens up on the interior of a cell and of a tall good looking American officer. And no, it's not Frank Sinatra]_

Colonel Hogan sighed and looked at the gray concrete walls with disdain.

 _How did I end up here?_ he wondered.

Not for the first time he wondered about the motives of the author. _What was her angle? For that matter, where was her plot?_

The Colonel shook his head. It was just his bad luck that he occupied the one cell that had no exit into the tunnels. Not that he minded at the moment; the quiet gave him an opportunity to think.

 _Will this be all I'm good for?_ he thought. _Subject to the whims of fan fiction authors?_ _Every one of them different yet in the end all the same. Very few of them send us home...and of those that do I sometimes end up with Klink of all people! Why not some movie star like Jean Arthur?_

 _Why not..._

A rattling of keys at the end of the cooler hallway disrupted his thoughts. Footsteps walked past his cell before retreating from whence they came. After a moment the keys jingled again, leaving him alone.

 _So what happens now?_

 _Does the story end? Did the author run out of ideas other than sticking me in the cooler?_ He leaned his head against the cool wall of his cell.

 _What about the great questions? Obviously we know who won the war. But what happens after that? Do we have a story where we have families? Wives? Lovers?_

Not for the first time...it had only been eight paragraphs ago that he had used those very words...he wondered about the author. What was she like? Was she cute? For a fleeting moment he imagined drawing her lithe body close to his even as their warm lips met in a passionate kiss-

He broke off the thought and looked up at the ceiling with a small grin.

"Nice try," he said to no one in particular.

Just then another set of noisy keys heralded the presence of another guard. This time the heavy footfalls stopped short of the door before the steel panel opened.

Minutes later, as he emerged into the sunlight, Colonel Hogan smiled. The plot may be right or wrong but the story was going on after all! Maybe it would have an interesting twist...

* * *

 _Yes, there is a twist. Poor, poor Hogan. He just has no idea..._

 _Thanks for reading!_


	7. HE is coming

**Luck of the Draw**

A big thank you to _**Snooky-9093**_ and _**Rutika**_ for their kind reviews! I appreciate it!

Summary: What if Hogan and his men knew they were characters in fanfiction? How would they deal with it? And what would they do if an author threw their universe into chaos?

* * *

 _From the last chapter:_

 _Minutes later, as he emerged into the sunlight, Colonel Hogan smiled. The plot may be right or wrong but the story was going on after all! Maybe it would have an interesting twist..._

General Burkhalter scrowled. "Colonel Hogan, we're in trouble!" he growled.

 _...or not._

"How so, sir?" he said cheerfully.

"HE is coming," the General said. Hogan was surprised to see a trace of fear - more than that, actually - in the senior officer's eyes.

"Who's that?"

"Never mind," the acting Kommandant said, waving him off. "I want you to police the grounds and get the camp ready for inspection."

"And if I say no?" Hogan challenged. The General gave him an evil glare.

"Of course you have a choice, Hogan!" the German said unpleasantly. "You can either work on the camp or be shot!"

"You can't do that!" the Colonel protested. "What'll happen to the show? I have top billing! That's why they call it _Hogan's Heroes!"_

"Enough of that!" Burkhalter thundered. "I don't care if the show is named after you! I'm still a General and I'm ordering you to get this camp ready!" He leaned over the desk and looked the enemy officer in the eye. "I still want to know what happened to Klink, Hogan. There is something strange about all of this and I think you are at the center of it-"

At that very moment there was a white flash of light. The eyes of both men followed the source and were surprised to see a large rectangular flat box hanging on the wall.

"What the heck..." muttered Hogan.

Suddenly the black screen came alive with an overhead image of a red car racing at high speed through unnamed city streets. A woman's voice pulsed through hidden speakers into the drab green room:

 _"...and if you're just joining us you're watching the high-speed chase of a red Mercedes through the streets of downtown Springfield. The driver, a blonde woman alternatively described by male witnesses as 'smoking hot' and 'she's so fine' has been evading police pursuit since the chase began some two hours ago. As you can see, the passenger holding on for dear life has been identified as this man..."_

A picture of the missing Kommandant, with his mouth open as if screaming for dear life, appeared on the screen. Both men grimaced at the image.

 _"...Wilhelm Klink,"_ the announcer finished. _"At this time he's wanted by federal and state authorities for charges of armed bank robbery, drug dealing, stock swindling, cattle rustling, unauthorized sheep shearing..."_

"Our Klink?" the General blurted, unable to believe his ears. "The same one who couldn't get a date even if I threatened him with a transfer to the Russian front?!"

" _Yes, that Klink,"_ the voice from the wall finished. _"And we have late word that possible charges are also pending for confusing cashiers with Susan B. Anthony dollars as well as wearing a monocle without a permit. It's unclear at this time as to their exact relationship but sources have told us that Mr. Klink is possibly the woman's grandfather or great-grandfather."_ The announcer paused as the overhead helicopter view slowed before coming to a stop. _"And it looks like...yes, the car has pulled into a Waffle House restaurant on the corner of Abbott and Costello."_ Two figures, one dragging the other, went into the building. After a few minutes the announcer returned. _"We're not sure…Wait! We have late word that the couple has just ordered..."_ She gasped audibly _. "A pancake platter! At a Waffle House! Truly, Jim, this couple is the modern version of Bonnie and Clyde."_

 _"That's a tragic situation, Merdith,"_ a man's voice agreed. _"You just don't expect things to happen like this during sweeps week! Do you have an estimate on the body count yet?"_

 _"At this moment we have zero unconfirmed fatalities,"_ the female continued breathlessly if not dramatically. _"However, we have no idea as to what they might have in the trunk of the car. They might have an AK-47, for instance. Or even a grenade launcher! It won't take much for this group of terrorists."_ She paused, then continued. _"Right now I have the chief of police for Springfield, Clancy Wiggum, to explain how they're going to deal with these ISIS renegades. Chief Wiggum?"_

 _"Ah, yes,"_ a nasally voice spoke up. _"We're watching the suspects until they make their next move. Then we'll trail them to the edge of town and watch them go out of our jurisdiction. Problem solved!"_

 _"But wouldn't it make sense to arrest them now and stop their reign of terror?"_ Merdith blurted, outraged at not catching a dramatic shootout on camera. _"Won't someone think of the children?"_ she wailed. _"What kind of police department is this?"_

 _"Hey, we're just trying to do our jobs,"_ the fat policeman protested. _"Besides, the author of this story won't allow us to arrest them! She said they're on their way to Las Vegas anyway to do some gambling..."_

 _"And there you have it, viewers!"_ the announcer interrupted, seemingly horrified. _"Drug dealing ISIS terrorists are about to unleash bloody carnage on an unsuspecting Las Vegas! We'll have more shocking footage at 6-"_

 _"Hey, that's not what I said!"_ Wiggum, now off camera, whined. _"All I said was-"_

At that moment the TV disappeared. Colonel Hogan and General Burkhalter looked at each other. Finally, the German broke the silence.

"How come he gets the better storyline?" he groaned, sinking into the leather chair. Hogan shrugged.

"Every dog has his day," he said. Burkhalter's temper flared once again.

"And his will be on the Russian front!" he raged. "And I'll make sure it's _Private_ Klink-"

A loud upbeat music filled the air as the red lights on the nearby cameras turned off.

"What's going on?" Hogan asked.

The cameraman shrugged. "Breaking news from one of the campaigns," he shrugged. "Some kind of important announcement."

The two officers looked at one another, eyebrows raised. "So what's going on?" the Kommandant asked, barely calm but still curious.

"Your guess is as good as mine," the stranger said before he turned on a portable TV. "Take a look." All of the characters crowded around the small screen to see two men sitting at a lighted desk. A graphic Fox News image and scrolling bars covered the lower half of the screen.

 _"We have breaking news from the election front,"_ one of the men announced in a dramatic 'we broke the story first' voice. _"A new candidate has thrown their hat into the 2016 Presidential race. With us at the new campaign headquarters is Debra MacEnery to explain this development. What have you found out, Debra?"_

 _"Stunning news from the campaign trail, Tom,"_ the analyst spoke _up. "A new candidate has announced a run for the Presidency! Donald Trump's Hair is going to run as an independent candidate! I repeat, Donald Trump's Hair is going to run as an independent candidate for President of the United States! Mr. Hair is about to say a few words..."_

The scene suddenly switched to a golden mane of hair standing at a microphone. Inaudible squeaks and chirps sounded as the toupee punctuated its remarks with an upraised lock of hair. As the hair fell silent the audience enthusiastically cheered before the scene cut back to the two men. Surprisingly, Tom had visible tears.

 _"Makes you proud to be an American, doesn't it?"_ he said emotionally, wiping his eyes...

"WE WERE PREEMPTED BY KLINK AND A PILE OF HAIR?" Burkhalter screamed. "WHAT KIND OF SHOW IS THIS?!"

"The author's show," Hogan reminded him. "She calls the shots, remember?"

"Yes...of course," Burkhalter muttered, not liking the thought at all. His sour nature then snapped back into action before he walked behind the desk. "Get this camp cleaned up before HE arrives," he ordered, flipping through some of the useless paperwork on the wooden surface.

Hogan was tempted to ask who 'HE' was but thought better of it. The storyline would come in time. Maybe. "I do have one question, sir," he asked politely.

"And that is..." the General prompted.

"Do you want us to plant daffodils outside your office?" the Colonel asked innocently. "Or bluebonnets? If you really want us to spiff the place up-"

"OUT!" Burkhalter thundered.

"Can't please everyone," Hogan murmured as he walked out the door and back to his barracks.

* * *

 _**Disclaimer from the author:_

 _No candidates were harmed in the making of this story. As a patriot, I believe in the free choice of American democracy and the right of the American people to make their inspired choice as to the future leadership of this Republic. As a religious person I can only pray that our ship of state will continue on its prosperous journey through the turbulent waters of the world. As a registered voter, however, I can only roll my eyes and reach for the Pepto-Bismol._

 _Where's Jed Bartlet when you need him? Seriously!_

 _With that said, I return you to the story…_

* * *

"So who do you figure it, Colonel?" Kinch rumbled in his deep trademark voice.

"Not sure," the Colonel muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He glanced at the barracks floor. Only dirty floorboards greeted his eyes; it was as if the hole had never been there. He flicked his eyes toward the tunnel entrance.

 _Do I risk it?_ He looked at Kinch.

"Whoever it is, it's someone big," he mentioned. "I've never seen Burkhalter that scared before. And if he's that worried.."

"…then it makes you wonder what else the author has dreamed up," the radioman finished.

"We ought to just go on strike," groused Newkirk, knowing the option was useless. "What gives her the right to mess around with our lives?"

"We'll never get home," LeBeau moaned. "No walks along the Seine with a pretty girl! I even wanted to open my own restaurant after the war. Now…" He made a pppht sound with his tongue. "Now, we'll be in hell. Forever."

"Hey," protested Carter, who had only been a source of occasional random lines up to this point, "it could be worse." Newkirk gave him a dirty look.

"Just how much worse could it get?" he growled warningly. In response, Carter put his hands together in prayer and piously looked up at the wooden ceiling.

Instantly, a large black television materialized out of thin air before turning itself on. _"Live, from New York!"_ an energetic male voice announced. _"It's not Saturday Night Live but another Republican debate! This 16 hour commercial free debate is brought to you by Ignorthem-"_

"Okay, okay!" Newkirk yelled before the TV disappeared. "I apologize, Carter," he said, this time politely. "It really could be worse!"

Suddenly, they felt the author's presence leave the area. As one, the men relaxed.

"I guess she's gone to work on Major Hochstetter's part again," Carter said.

"I wonder," mused Kinch, looking at the tunnel. "If those clones disappeared before, then do you think the shark…" He let the desperate thought hang in the air.

Hogan walked over to the trap door and watched it slide upward. A horrendous noise, unlike anything the men had ever heard, blasted upward from the tunnel.

"WHAT IS THAT?" shouted an unnamed extra as he desperately tried to cover his ears.

"I DON'T KNOW!" Hogan yelled. He winced in pain as he reached over to the hidden panel. As he did so the din ceased. Only the sound of sloshing water echoed hollowly up the narrow opening before a man's voice loudly cut the eerie silence:

"And that was the new hit wonder, Another Human Bites the Dust!" he shouted. "Now, by popular acclaim, we have..."

Blissful silence returned as the trap door descended on the wildness below. For the umpteenth time that day Colonel Hogan sighed in despair before he shook his head.

"Guess we'd better get started," he muttered before he glanced at the front door. "Everyone outside!" he ordered. "Start cleaning up the compound. Kinch, get with the other barracks chiefs and have their men do the same thing. I'm not sure what's going on but we may as well be ready for it."

"Gotcha, Colonel," the man nodded before he ducked out of the barracks with the other inhabitants. After a moment the Colonel straightened his cap before walking outside.

Fortunately, cleaning the compound wasn't that difficult. As the residents of another fictional camp – this one set in Korea – would discover it was more or less picking up the occasional bit of trash, cleaning the buildings and making sure the dirt was straight. The author, still tripping from her triple latte and Milky Way induced high, was in such a good mood that she decided not to dump random pieces of paper around the camp. There was no sense in needlessly stirring up the inmates.

At least, for now.

General Burkhalter, meanwhile, had worked himself into a nervous state of exhaustion. A literal river of sweat flowed down the creases and jags of his large face. His hands, nervous and twitching, threatened to twist themselves off at the wrists.

"He's nearly here..." he mumbled to himself, almost whining the words. "He's nearly here..."

Hogan, looking on, wondered if being driven insane was part of the overall plot.

 _Or is there a plot to all this?_

At that moment a luxurious black staff car drew up to the front gate. The General, upon seeing the auto, went ballistic.

"Oh, God!" he wailed. "Help me!" Reflexively he made a effort to straighten his uniform tunic with shaking hands.

"Who is this guy?" Hogan wondered aloud as the staff car drove up to them.

" _Him_..." the General mumured, waving his hand. "He's the most feared of the Führer's generals."

"I thought Rommel held that distinction?"

"No," Burkhalter whined. "Worse. He'll do anything for the Fuhrer! Anything! Anyone that gets in his way..." He drew a finger across his throat as the car's brakes whined their way to a stop. The General came to attention as the driver popped out to open the back door.

"Colonel Hogan," he said formally, "may I present..."

A heavy, almost rythmic breathing exited the car moments before its occupant did.

"... _Generalfeldmarschall_ Darth...Vader."

* * *

 _The Dark Lord has arrived! Will General Burkhalter meet an untimely end? Will the author give Colonel Hogan the powers of a Jedi? Will the story end here? Find out next time on..._

 _...oh, you know the drill._

 _Thanks for reading!_


	8. Hogan's curse, Hochstetter's torment

**Luck of the Draw**

Thanks for coming back! Have fun! And a big thank you to the reviewers! And a **REALLY** big thank you to the newest addition to be named in a later chapter! I'm so glad she didn't run me through with a sword...or cleave me with her axe...or...well, you get the drift if you're still listening!

Summary: What if Hogan and his men knew they were characters in fanfiction? How would they deal with it? And what would they do if an author threw their universe into chaos?

* * *

A tall and imposing figure wearing a black SS uniform and dark metallic mask stepped into the afternoon sunlight. He took in the camp for a moment before he leveled his dark glassy orbs on the cowering General."

"Welcome, L-L-Lord V-Vader..." Burkhalter stuttered.

"General Burkhalter," a deep mechanical voice intoned. "Interesting. What are you doing here?"

"I..The Kommandant disappeared," the man cowered, his exposed skin sopping in glistening sweat. "I'm in temporary command."

Vader glanced at the dismal surroundings once more before he swung his head toward the temporary leader. "How unfortunate for you," he said dryly.

General Burkhalter's face turned pale. At that moment Hogan - anxious to avoid the loss of a secondary character through a heart attack - stepped in.

"Colonel Hogan, Senior Prisoner of War. Sir." He fired off a crisp salute. "Welcome to Stalag 13, sir."

The black mask merely looked at him in response.

"Hogan..." the mechanical voice mumured. "I've heard that name." A moment of silence followed before the inhuman sound returned. "Report to my quarters in thirty minutes," he ordered. "I want to talk to you."

Vader then swiveled on his heel before he strode off toward the nearby guest quarters. The Colonel raised an eyebrow at the retreating figure.

"Well, you don't see that everyday," he commented as his men walked up.

"I thought he was from _Star Wars_?" Carter wondered aloud before another thought struck him. "Hey, she can't do that!" he blurted out. "This story isn't even marked as a crossover!"

"New rules, mate," Newkirk said sarcastically before he rolled his eyes upward. "The bird upstairs is calling the shots, remember?"

"And we're just along for the ride," LeBeau muttered before he looked at the sky as well. "Do you suppose…" he wondered.

"Don't even suggest it," Hogan warned. "There are just some things a man shouldn't ask. Especially about that."

There was silence for a moment.

"After all this, I wonder where we'll end up," Kinch wondered. "Bigger question, Colonel. What does the 'Dark Lord'…" He wagged his index fingers in the air to make fun of the title. "…want with you?"

Hogan shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

 **Twenty five minutes later…**

Colonel Hogan took a last drag on his cigarette before he pushed himself off the barracks wall. Slowly, if not reluctantly, he ambled his way toward the guest quarters. General Burkhalter met him at the door.

"Now remember, Hogan," he hissed, " _Generalfeldmarschall_ Vader likes to be called 'Lord Vader.' Don't raise your voice to him and whatever you do don't mention the words 'Obi' and 'Wan' in the same sentence!"

"Do I bow, too?" the POW asked sarcastically, an innocent look on his face. "Or just kiss his boots?"

The General fixed him with a gimlet eye. "Not funny, Hogan!" he breathed before he pushed the front door open and walked inside. The American followed him into the living room before he froze.

Darth Vader, his mechanical breathing unchanged, held one of his hapless minions by the neck in midair. "I'm going to miss my favorite show because of you," the Dark Lord intoned ominously.

"But...my Lord..." the man gasped, choking. "There's no TV..."

"No excuses," Vader continued. "You have failed me for the last time, Hapless Minion 943!" Without warning he threw the thin man into the far corner where he lay gasping for breath. "Get out of my sight!"

"Yes...Yes Sir!" the man managed to get out before he stumbled from the room. Hogan stared at the Fuher's heavy handed hellacious henchman.

"I thought you usually killed the guys who served under you," the Colonel challenged.

Vader shrugged. "It's a comedy," he explained. "The author wants to keep the audience laughing as much as possible."

"Ah."

The impassive visage then turned his soulless eyes onto the nearby German general. "Then again, there are exceptions..." he said harshly. Burkhalter gulped as the man raised his hand before extending his index finger.

"I find your lack of DirecTV...disturbing," the Dark Lord rumbled, his words making the German officer visibly shake in fear. "Hapless Minion 944!"

Another nattily dressed junior lieutenant appeared from nowhere.

"Get me a TV!" he ordered before looking at his watch. "If I miss _Say Yes to the Dress_ I'm going to be...cranky."

"But My Lord," the man said nervously. "There's no satellites..."

Vader raised his right hand again.

"On the other hand..." The man scampered out of the room before the Field Marshal turned his attention to his new guests.

"Ah, Hogan," Darth Vader rumbled pleasantly. "So good of you to join us." A chair, directed by his gloved hand, skidded across the floor before coming to a stop in front of the American. "Have a seat." He then looked at the heavily perspiring temporary Kommandant.

"Leave us," he ordered. Prepare your troops for inspection."

Burkhalter, his back stiff, gave the obligatory - if not entirely hasty - 'Heil Hitler' salute before he raced off to parts unknown. Vader barely noticed the departure before he returned his attention to the business at hand. If he was offended that Hogan was still standing he gave no sign.

"So," he intoned. "You are Colonel Robert Hogan, United States Army Air Forces."

Hogan shrugged. "Just one of my many names," he said cheerfully. "Depends on which prison I'm in."

A slight strangling noise the Colonel correctly interpreted as laughter emanated from the dark helmet. "American humor," the man intoned. "Even so, for a professional officer such as yourself, watching the war pass by must be frustrating." He paused. "Obviously, one would consider that the duty to your men here prevents your escape."

"You know me pretty well, then," the Colonel said, keeping his face and posture neutral.

"Admirable," Vader said. "A prison within a prison. General Burkhalter was wise to place you here. And yet..." A shaft of red light sprang into being, causing Hogan's blood to freeze. The black figure raised the lightsaber and walked forward before stopping just short of the Senior POW.

"...we both know that you are Papa Bear, leader of the underground rebellion against the Third Reich!" he snarled. "For your numerous acts of sabotage and espionage..." He lowered the tip of the lighted end just short of Colonel Hogan's nose. "...you will die." He raised the lightsaber above his head, preparing to strike-

-and for a brief moment Hogan cursed the author for coming up with such an outlandish plot twist. Resolutely, he stared straight ahead as the lightsaber descended before stopping an inch from his neck.

"It would make more sense to give me a trial," he said calmly, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. "At least for propaganda."

After a moment Vader nodded. "True," he said, though he kept the red blade in place. "And yet, your death would solve a great many things."

"First, you'd have to prove I'm this Papa Bear," Hogan countered. "Except for accusing me, you have no proof. If you did I'd be dead now and you'd be going through the camp."

The Dark Lord stood motionlessly for a moment before he deactivated his lightsaber. Hogan softly sighed in relief.

"That would be...correct," Darth Vader said before he turned away and walked to the window. He stared at the bleak scene outside for a moment before he turned around.

"It seems that we have some secrets that must not see the light of day," he said quietly. "However, what would you say if I were to offer you...protection?"

Colonel Hogan blinked in surprise. Then again.

"However, what I provide comes at a price," the tall, dark and definitely unattractive man continued before swinging his head around. "And what if I were to use the phrase, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours?"

"I'm not into mechanical men" Hogan said, pursing his lips tightly at the thought. "Sorry."

"But I'm sure I can entice you," Vader purred softly as he stepped closer to the American. "After all, power does have its...attractions."

The Colonel renewed his inner curses against the demented author again.

"And if I said no?"

"That would be...unfortunate," the Dark Lord mumured. "You will resist. And you will fail." He raised his hands to his helmet and triggered a hidden catch before removing the shiny crown. A inner mask, covering the head, and the faceplate remained.

"Behold," he said. With that, he removed the final portions of the mask to reveal his true face. For once, Hogan was speechless.

"Oh, my God," he finally muttered, his voice stunned.

* * *

 _Meanwhile, in another universe...or, more specifically, Korea, 1952, and a certain M*A*S*H unit..._

Idly, Wolfgang Hochstetter wondered what he had done to deserve this kind of treatment.

For starters, it was hot. Lightning flashes of searing pain rocketed through his body as the world jolted beneath him. It took him a long moment before his bleary mind realized that he was in some kind of vehicle.

Even worse, it was an American vehicle if the voices he heard were any judge. He tried to sit up but was unsuccessful. At that moment another fact occurred to him.

 _I can't see!_

Strange noises gurgled from his throat as he tried to make his presence known. Suddenly, a voice from his right said:

"Hold on, buddy," a man said. "We'll be there in a minute."

Major Hochstetter felt someone pat him on the shoulder before moving away. The Gestapo officer raged helplessly before his ever-alert mind kicked in. English voices, mixed with medical terms he didn't quite understand, led him to believe that he was in...

 _...an ambulance?_

After a few more long and painful minutes the vehicle slowed then stopped. More English-speaking voices joined the others.

"Chest wound," a tired, yet confident, voice spoke. "Klinger!"

"You called, O Mighty Captain?" a energetic voice replied.

"Tag him first," the first voice ordered. Major Hochstetter then felt a presence at his side. "Hi there!" the same now-cheerful man began. "Welcome to Hawkeye's house of horrors. I'll be your tour guide through this nightmare-"

"Oh, can't you take anything seriously, Pierce?" a new high-pitched voice interrupted.

"Try playing a doctor and I'll let you know," Hawkeye quipped. "Beech?"

"What's up, Hawk?" a third voice replied.

"Take a look." Blinded, Hochstetter couldn't tell what this 'Hawkeye' was up to before the man sounded off again.

"Frank" he said. "There is something that you can help me with. I'd appreciate it if you can take this patient for me. I'll take yours."

"Why?" asked the other voice suspiciously.

"Well, I'm a bit out of my depth on this one," Hawkeye softly admitted, sounding oddly contrite. "Do you mind taking him?"

"Of course." Frank, whoever he was, then changed tone. "You know, it's about time that you learned to ask for help. Try not to take this personally, Pierce, but I am the better doctor," he said smugly. "Maybe now you'll grow up."

"Don't bet on it, Frank," Pierce said, his sarcastic tone unimpressed.

At that point Hochstetter - whether gratefully or involuntarily - lost consciousness.

* * *

A sharp _'clack'_ of metal on metal caused the Major to awake from his stupor. A utter sense of relief fell upon him as his vision slowly returned.

 _I can see!_

Dimly, he was aware of being carried through a series of rough wooden rooms. His bleary mind finally snapped into focus when he entered the last room and saw the white robed figures there.

 _I'm in a hospital!_

Horrified, he tried to get up but failed. At that exact moment his body was laid on the table before a surgeon with suddenly narrowed, and decidedly angry, eyes. Oddly, the image of a ferrett popped into a small corner of his now-alert mind.

"I'm not operating on a Nazi!" he declared indignantly before he glared at one of his colleagues. "They're worse than the Chinese!"

"Nice to see you have standards, Frank," Hawkeye deadpanned, his dark eyes twinkling above his surgical mask before he looked at the nurse standing nearby. "Clamp," he ordered.

"I'm an American, Pierce!" Burns retorted. "That means I only operate on our own fighting men!"

"Careful," Pierce said. "Your Hippocratic slip is showing."

"Gee, and I thought we were here to save everyone," B.J. piped in. "When did that change?"

"You can't blame Frank, Beech," Hawkeye replied. "His copy of _All-American Surgical Hypocrites_ didn't come in this month."

"You two should be ashamed of yourselves!" Major Margret Houlihan declared. "I think it's noble for Major Burns to show some professional standards around here!"

"You're absolutely right, Margaret!" Hawkeye asked innocently. "I should show some professional courtesy." He then winked at the head nurse. "Of course, it would help if you'd give us some unprofessional examples. Say, anything involving you, Frank and your quarters?"

"Captain Pierce!" the head nurse snapped back, undeterred. "Don't you have any decency?"

"I tried being decent," he cheerfully retorted. "Unfortunately, it never got me past second base."

"You pervert!" she growled. Her eyes then flicked to the far end of the OR. "Colonel Potter!" she rang out. "Aren't you going to do anything about this?"

"All right, Pierce," the older man's voice rumbled. "Keep your thoughts to yourself. Or at least until later."

"And what about this...patient?" Frank sneered. "He's German!"

"Just close your eyes and pretend he's a famous football star, Frank," Honeycutt offered. "He's a human being, you know."

"I'll have you know that I think all human life is sacred," Burns began. As he spoke, Major Hochstetter grunted in increasing pain as his morphine wore off. In desperation he tried to speak but only gurgles enamated from his throat.

He was ignored.

"That'll be a surprise to your patients," Hawkeye popped in.

"Pierce," Colonel Potter said warningly.

"Sorry, Colonel," he said apologetically. "I couldn't pass it up."

"Don't mind them, Doctor," Major Houlihan said appreciatively. "Those two have no idea of what a real American should be."

"Too true, Major," Frank agreed. "I regard all human life as sacred," he repeated. "It''s just that I think we should restrict our efforts here to preserving the American form of life. Our own fighting boys, for example."

"Not to mention our allies," B.J. said, barely looking up from the perforated bowel he was working on. "They're fighting for democracy, too."

"And our generous hosts, the Korean people," Hawkeye said sarcastically. "Without whose country this police action wouldn't be taking place."

"I'm not operating on some Nazi," Major Burns snapped once more, almost spitting the words beneath his mask. "And that's that!"

Suddenly, two pieces of paper popped into existence before the officer and his chosen nurse. To everyone's surprise Major Burns _laughed._ His high pitched evil giggle reverberated around the surgical theatre."

"Something funny, Frank?" Pierce inquired, curious.

"Nothing you need to worry about," the Major said snidely, his hidden smile beaming in delight. "On the other hand, I think an American such as myself can make an exception. For national security, you understand."

And then, he laughed again.

* * *

Will Frank Burns win? Will the Dark Lord get his man? Do you really want to know the answers to these questions? As the old saying goes, tune in or tune out!


	9. Breaking points with songs to live by

**Luck of the Draw**

Thanks for reading and for the reviews! I do appreciate it!

Summary: What if Hogan and his men knew they were characters in fanfiction? How would they deal with it? And what would they do if an author threw their universe into chaos?

* * *

"HOGAN! DARLING!" exclaimed Mayra before she rushed into his arms.

Colonel Hogan blinked, then blinked again. The nightmare image of the Russian's head, combined with the dark suit of Darth Vader, refused to disappear from his tormented mind.

 _I'm going nuts!_

"You're not going mad, Hogan," she purred softly, reading his thoughts. The American, still stunned at the turn of events, made no move to resist as she laid a passionate kiss on his lips. Finally, if not slowly, he broke away.

"You're Darth Vader?" he blurted. "But…the movies…"

"It's all a sham, darling," Marya said, waving his concerns off with a flick of her hand. "We borrowed the costume from the real Vader. It puts new meaning to the words tall, dark and metal, no?" She twirled around, cape flying. "Of course, I prefer something a bit more colorful. Black is not one of my favorites!"

"So what happened to Vader?" Hogan asked.

"He wanted out of being the Dark Lord," the Soviet spy explained. "Great benefits but a lousy boss. So we made him an offer that he couldn't refuse. We get his suit and he becomes the happiest Dunkin Dounuts franchisee in New Jersey." She made a sour face. "Honestly, have you ever seen a man that loves to make doughnuts? Ppssh!" she said dismissively.

"And you used it to fool Hitler?" Hogan said, impressed. "Smart."

"We're his right hand man, so to speak," she smirked. "And, we have access to all of the secrets of the Third Reich! A perfect deal for everyone!" Marya smiled suggestively at her favorite American. "Of course, you're more than welcome to see everything that lays beneath this suit…"

"Nothing doing," Hogan snapped back, feeling slightly guilty at the wilted look on Marya's face. "So how'd you move the chair? You don't have the Force."

Marya merely smiled. "Just a parlor trick." She held up her right hand to show a plain gold ring on her ring finger. "I got it in a box of Cracker Jack."

The Colonel snorted in amusement. "So what's your plan here?"

"I just couldn't resist stopping by to see you, Hogan!" she murmured passionately before she kissed him once more. The Colonel let her lips linger for a long moment before he pulled away once more.

"Time for you to go," he announced. "I've already got enough problems around here without adding you to the mix." Marya looked crestfallen.

"But Hogan! Darling!—" The American held up his hand.

"Not a chance, lady," the POW said, firmly cutting her off. He looked at his watch. "Look, I've got to go. You'll-" Marya pressed a finger to his lips.

"Hush, lover," She held up an object in her right hand that looked like a lady's compact. "I think you'll be staying tonight," she said seductively.

Her guest laughed. "Sorry, but you couldn't pay me enough to stay with you."

"Oh, I think you will," she murmured knowingly, a devilish smile on her graceful lips. At that moment she pushed a hidden button on the makeup case-

-and Hogan's demeanor instantly changed. Befuddled, he shook his head for a brief moment before his lustful gaze fell upon the woman in front of him.

"Where have you been all my life?" he muttered, drinking in her beauty with thirsty eyes. Marya merely smiled and held open her arms.

"Darling! Take me!" she cried.

Colonel Hogan did just that.

* * *

 _To the reader of this story:_

 _You may be wondering what just happened._

 _For once, I've always wanted to see Marya and Hogan get together if only for one episode. Alas, it was never to be. However, even dreams can come true...if only in fan fiction!_

 _So I used a clever little thing called a 'plot device' to grant my wish! Not that anything would actually happen between the two..._

[bumping noises in the distance]

 _...after all, she's a spy and a Communist. He, on the other hand, represents all that is right and well with the free world! A romance between the two? Especially considering that this is a Cold War show? Never going to happen..._

[pounding noises, accompanied by what sounds like loud groaning, filter through the author's sentences as she speaks above the noise]

 _...because after all, if I don't write it it won't happen! And that's that! Finito. Period. Double period! The end!_

[The sound abruptly stops. The author leans back, satisfied.]

 _There, now! Everything is all right with the world! Now we'll look back in and just see how Hogan is doing..._

"So, Hogan," Marya softly cooed as they lay together in bed, "that is just fascinating! All those tunnels underneath the White House that people could use to sneak in! You know so many secrets about Washington! And all those Generals you were telling me about..."

"We aim to please," Hogan smiled.

"...and that diagram for the Norden bombsight! A wonder!"

"It made you happy."

"...not to mention the Allies postwar plans for all of Germany..."

Hogan grinned. "You only had to ask."

[Author's face whitens]

 _Oh, dear...er...I'll need to fix this! Right now, we'll break away to the primary election!_

[scene cuts to Fox News]

 _"...and Donald Trump's Hair wins by a landslide in Louisiana, Michigan, Delaware and all points in between! Mr. Hair, now holding a 79% national poll figure, leads the pack of presidential wannabees in the race for the White House!_

 _In other news the annoying bald man formerly known as Donald Trump filed suit in federal court today alleging that Mr. Hair is not an American citizen. More on that story after this..."_

* * *

"Colonel? Colonel?"

Colonel Hogan, his head a mask of pain, forced himself to concentrate on the voice. After a moment he placed it.

"Kinch?" he said thickly?

"Yeah." The radioman's voice, tinged with guilt, penetrated his cottony consciousness. "A couple of guards brought you in a little while ago. "

"Oh…" The officer, his memory still fogged, racked his mind for details. Oddly, he remembered going to the guest quarters and finding out about Mayra. Everything after that was a blank. "What happened?"

No one said anything for a moment. Finally, Kinch's voice broke the silence.

"Well..." Eyes, filled with concern, flicked away in embarrassment. "We heard everything, Colonel. Including you and..."

"Oh, great," Hogan muttered, finally catching on. Oddly, he was more ashamed than humiliated. "Well," he finally said, "I guess she got me. Where is she now?"

"She left right after she sent you back here." LeBeau then made a pained face. "How could she do this to me?" he wailed. "I was her only true love!"

"You and everyone else," Newkirk growled. The Frenchman made a face.

"Just because she wasn't interested in you-" he retorted.

"All right, knock it off!" Hogan ordered slowly. "Kinch, can you give me a hand?" With effort, not to mention a certain amount of pain, the Colonel rose to his feet before he slowly walked into the larger barracks. "Must've been a wild night," he remarked casually as he tried to shake the cobwebs from his head. "Then again, it could have been worse. I could have given the store away..."

All of the men averted their eyes. Just then, a conveniently placed nearby radio switched on by itself.

 _"...and in other news, it seems that the studly Casanova Colonel of Stalag 13 has definitely become an item with a known communist spy. What secrets did he give to his femme fatale? More on this story as it develops-_ "

"Ok, sure," Hogan said, flicking his bleary eyes to the ceiling and to the omnipresent author. "You just had to do that, didn't you? Well, it's not going to work!" He flashed a rakish, if not insolent, grin. "Do your worst!" he challenged. Inwardly he winced.

Poor choice of words...

Just then there was a knock on the barracks door. The senior POW, followed by his men, walked over to the thin panel and opened it. A young woman in a Western Union uniform - complete with a cap pinned to her blonde hair - smiled at him.

"Message for you, sir," she said cheerfully before holding out a clipboard. "If you could sign here..."

The Colonel absently signed the message form before his befuddled brain caught up with reality. "You're from Western Union," he blurted, unwilling to believe his eyes. "How did you get here? Where-"

"There's a war on. Haven't you heard?" the stranger said snidely before she handed the officer two large envelopes. "A woman's gotta do her part!" With that, she mounted her motorbike and roared off. The Colonel's stunned eyes watched the woman ride out of camp before he turned his attention to the flat parcels.

"Oh, boy," he breathed before he stepped out into the bright sunlight. Without further words he tore open one of the envelopes and scanned the contents. "You have to be kidding me!"

"What's going on, Colonel?" Newkirk asked.

Hogan held up a packet of paper. "I'm being charged with..." His tongue suddenly grew as thick as molasses. With effort, he forced himself to say the next word. "...treason."

"TREASON!" Everyone exclaimed, crowding around.

"They can't do that!" LeBeau fumed.

"It's the army," Kinch groused. "They can do anything."

"There's other charges, too," Hogan went on. "Espionage, conduct unbecoming to an officer, aiding the enemy-"

"But the Russians are our allies! Right?" Carter exclaimed. He was ignored as Hogan continued.

"...misbehavior before the enemy..."

"They might have you there, Colonel," Kinch remarked. "We are in the middle of Germany."

"...wearing nonregulation black underwear when regulation green underwear is prescribed..."

"I guess they don't like Henry Ford," Kinch quipped.

"...and several others." He pulled another sheet out of the stack before raising his eyebrows. "On the other hand I've received a commendation." He read the paper before a dry tired chuckle escaped his throat. He passed it to Kinch who merely smiled and shook his head.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense!" Newkirk said. "What's it say?"

"The Army, in its collective wisdom, has commended the Colonel for..." he waited dramatically. "keeping his indiscretions 100 miles from the nearest American flagpole."

Before anyone could say a word a large truck rumbled through the gates and into the compound. A man popped out of the front passenger side and bounded up to Hogan.

"Glad to meet ya, sir!" he said enthusiastically in a nasal New York accent before he pumped Hogan's hand up and down. "Mort Jenkins, PBBD! We serve the five bouroughs, lower New Jersey and now Hammelburg! This is really an honor!" He held out a photo and marker. "Can I have your autograph?" he asked. "It's for the missus..."

Hogan scrawled his signature on the glossy surface and handed it back. The stranger beamed.

"Yes, sir!" he barked. "You know, I thought I won the lottery when I found out I was coming here! I used to watch _Hogan's Heroes_ all the time when I was a kid..."

Behind him Hogan could see a team of men moving what looked like mattresses into Barracks Two. "Are those beds?" he asked incredulously.

"Sure are!" Mort exclaimed. "Straight from the author! She made a special deal with me, you know. Nothing too good for our boys in uniform! So," he said, slapping his hand together, "how about 'em Yankees! They're having a great season so far..."

That led to a ultimately short yet completely delusional dilatory diatribe about which team was better even though (as Hogan should have remembered) that the regular season hadn't even started yet. Before any of them knew it the small army of men were finished with their job.

"Well, like I said, its been fun!" Mort said. "I'll be seeing you!" Before he could turn away Hogan stopped him.

"Wait a minute," the Colonel said, curious. "What does PBBD stand for?"

"Oh, Pirhana Bed Bug Delivery!" the man said happily. "We serve the finest backbiters this side of the Hudson-"

A series of deep-throated screams shattered the still air. Suddenly, the door to Barracks Two literally _shattered_ to pieces as the inhabitants shoved their way through the opening before discarding bits and pieces of clothing in a frantic attempt to escape the parasites.

Hogan swiveled his head back towards Mort. "What is-"

But the man and his truck were gone.

"Where'd he go?" Carter said, looking around.

"Mail! Mail Call! Come and get it while it's hot!" an Army corporal yelled out. "Let's see...Hogan, Colonel R.E.!"

"Here," the Colonel said automatically, collecting his mail before doing a double take. "Hey, I know you!" the Senior POW said. "You're Sergeant Max Klinger from M*A*S*H! What are you doing here?"

"The mail stops for no one, your Colonelness," Klinger said pleasantly. "Now if you'll excuse me I have to deliver some letters to our replacement surgeon or the major will be majorly miffed at yours truly. Excuse me..."

And with that, he vanished. Colonel Hogan blinked twice before he shook his head to check the mail. The glossy magazine caught his eye first. Horrified, he stared at the picture on the front cover.

"She wouldn't..." He flipped through the copy of _Playgirl_ and watched in horror as the centerfold unfolded in all of its glory.

"Well," Newkirk drawled after a moment. "I guess Trump was right. Big hands-"

"Knock it off," Hogan spat as he hurriedly closed the magazine back up. Another packet caught his eye. " _International House of Taxes_?" he parroted, reading the return address before he tore open the envelope. "An audit?" he sputtered as he looked through the words. "But..." He read further. "Illegal income...Delinquent...Deadbeat?!" he exclaimed. "You're kidding me!"

"Well, that figures," Kinch said. "How much are they getting us for?"

The Colonel let the bottom of the paper fall from his hand. It spread itself into an accordion-like fan before hitting the dirt. All those zeroes...

"D'oh!" he swore.

"Sir!" another corporal yelled, running up to Hogan. "Sergeant Mills says to come quick! Some of the men are blind, sir!"

"Blind?" Hogan blurted. "How?" The answer came soon enough.

"Someone changed the pinups, Colonel," the replacement medical NCO reported. "We have guys with welders goggles taking down the rest but for these guys..." He waved a hand at the dozen or so men in the nearby hut. "...there's no hope."

"So what happened?" Hogan asked, already dreading the answer.

"Well, a lot of the pinups are of Betty Grable with some Lauren Bacall thrown in," the Sergeant explained. "I guess the author...whoever she is...didn't like them. Said they were sexist and that we deserved something more appropriate for our dirty minds."

"So who's on them now?"

"Um...well, at least he was wearing a bikini," the tech said. "Even so, it swore me off guys even after the war."

"And 'he' is..."

"Ernest Borgnine."

Hogan sighed dramatically and kicked up a small puff of dirt in frustration. A small crowd of men - mostly Allied, but with a few guards too - stood nearby with worried faces. He drew in a deep breath.

"Men," he began, his tone calm, "there's no cause for concern. Everything is fine."

At that very moment the rank insignia changed from a Colonel's silver eagle to the golden oak leaf of a Major. The newly minted major sighed but pressed on.

"I'm working on solving the problems we have with our current author. This crazy plot can't last much longer..."

The gold insignia suddenly morphed into those of a second lieutenant. The officer-formerly-known-as-Colonel-Hogan gritted his teeth together.

"...and we'll be back to our old plots. We might even have a new line or two." He picked one of the men out of the crowd. "Kapnerweski, didn't you want to have that plot where you changed your name to something that didn't choke a horse?"

"Sure did, sir!" Mordecaiaus Leeharvenson Kapnerweski spoke up.

"And you!" Hogan pointed to another soldier. "Didn't you want to be that guy that goes to the cooler because I tell him to? And then stays there until the end of the war?"

"Sure do!" the private said excitedly. "That'd be something to write home about!"

"All right!" Hogan clapped his hands together with a resounding _slap_ that signaled the start of a new plan. "Now, then-"

The bars suddenly disappeared. Cloth strips, in the form of sergeant's stripes, appeared on the leather sleeves. At that moment Hogan's temper finally broke.

"STOP IT!" he screamed out...

 _...and somewhere, an author lost control of her keyboard for the very first time._

"We're human beings, for God's sake!" the former officer raged. "Don't you have any decency? DONT YOU?" he screamed. "You've blown people up for kicks! You've had us chased by sharks! Klink is probably learning a new career: how to make shanks for fun and profit! But you hit a new low when you blinded my men. That's going too far!" He drew in another deep breath.

"Enough is enough! We're men, and we have feelings!" A mutter of outrage from the nearby men accompanied the statement. "We deserve to be treated like the men we are, not humiliated for everyone's amusement. We deserve a decent plot too! So what do you say to that?" he challenged as a manly roar swept the crowd.

For a long moment nothing happened. Then, rather suddenly, the stripes disappeared. Silver eagles, glinting in the afternoon sunlight, greeted his grateful eyes. He looked over at the nearby barracks and saw a string of formerly blind men blinking in the bright light. A wave of applause washed through the nearby group before Colonel Hogan took a short bow.

"Let's hear it for the Colonel!" a cockney voice called out. The crowd roared in delight.

"Takes a real man to put an author in her place!" another called out. "That's telling her!"

The Colonel smiled...and then frowned as he felt his skin suddenly _tingle_ with electricity. The applause slowly died away as the front of Hogan's flight jacket comically bulged outward. For a moment an abstract part of the man's mind wondered what they were.

And then he knew.

"What the..." he said, then caught himself as the words emerged in a lighter tone. His hands shimmered slightly and became more slender and delicate...

 _Those are women's hands!_

...and were topped off by hot pink nail polish on the long fingernails. Hair, once short, now bobbed neatly in a precise curl just above the collar of the jacket. As a final insult his pants reformed themselves into a skirt. Newkirk, eyes filled with compassion, looked at his longtime bunkmate.

"Louie, I've been here for far too long," he muttered, worry in his eyes.

"Why's that?" LeBeau asked.

The RAF Corporal looked at the rapidly-turning-feminine officer's nyloned legs again. "Because the Colonel's got the best gams of any bird that's ever passed through here, that's why!"

Colonel Roberta Hogan, her transformation complete, stood in abject humiliation before the shocked audience moments before she raised her coiffured head to scream at the heavens. Just before she did so an outside force took control and pushed the unwilling woman toward a conveniently placed platform that stood next to Barracks 4. Her mouth, framed in Revlon's Pastel Peach glossy lipstick, opened up to sing-

* * *

[Scene muted. The Colonel, in the background, can be seen singing passionately. The author stands in the foreground and smiles gently at the unseen audience]

 _Excuse me while I pull on an appropriate outfit..._

[The author dons a surplus and heavily discounted 'Charles Emerson Winchester' Halloween costume that consists of a pullover fat stomach, mask with mostly bald head, and white doctor's coat before speaking once more in a cultured Bostonian accent]

 _Again, my dear reader, I must apologize. Due to the atrociously abysmal rules concerning song lyrics I shall be unable to publish what our dear Colonel Hogan is saying. I'm sure she will quite enjoy singing_ 'I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar' _by Helen Reddy not once, not twice but thrice…or until I say stop!_

[In the background Colonel Hogan, still singing, makes what could be interpreted as an obscene gesture toward the unseen camera. The author fails to notice]

 _It is, of course, unwise for any character to tempt an author and challenge her with words without being called to account for their actions. Rest assured, readers, the change will not be of a permanent nature but only temporary. I have no desire to be flamed by uncouth cretins that cannot recognize the value of a sense of humor._

 _As a final note: silence, as a rule, is golden. Otherwise you would be listening to a highly irritated and tone-deaf woman bellow the words to a song that could not begin to compete with the enlightened works of Enrico Caruso and La Traviata._

 _Consider yourself fortunate._

* * *

I hope you enjoyed this piece! Thanks for reading!


	10. The End?

**Luck of the Draw**

Sadly, this is the last - and biggest - chapter in the story. Enjoy yourselves and have a great day! Thanks for reading!

* * *

 _Meanwhile, in the M*A*S*H universe…_

"I'll take a scotch," Captain Pierce said tiredly as he sank onto the wooden bench. "Just have the girl deliver it to my place. I don't even care what her hair color is."

"I'm married," B.J. said as he rubbed his tired eyes. "But I will take the drink."

Colonel Potter merely chuckled. "That's one thing I envy you boys," he groaned, weariness in his bones. "You never run out of jokes even on a day like this,"

"Speaking of jokes..." Hawkeye's now-alert eyes glanced into the empty operating room. "Where's Frank?"

"He and Margaret took off," his roommate said. "Something about getting a pass."

"I didn't sign anything for that yahoo," the Colonel said in an annoyed tone before he raised his voice.

"Klinger!"

After a brief moment a swarthy man wearing sergeant's stripes appeared at the door. "You called, mighty one?"

"Have you seen Major Burns?" the older man growled.

"Sure," the sergeant replied. "He and Major Houlihan took off for Kimpo about ten minutes ago. They said they had a three-day pass."

"Damn!" the senior officer declared. "Did you see this pass?"

Klinger nodded. "Yeah," he admitted, shrinking back slightly. "And if I say something else will you promise not to kill the messenger?"

Colonel Potter stood up. "The messenger better tell me everything," he said quietly, letting a menacing stare do the work for him. "Or he'll end up on KP for the rest of the series..."

"The passes were signed by the ultimate authority!" Klinger confessed.

"I'm the ultimate authority around here!" the Colonel snarled, pointing to himself.

"Uh...well, they were signed by the author. I saw them myself! What could I do?" the company clerk pleaded. " They got their papers and majorly hightailed it out of here-"

"Relax, son," Potter said in a fatherly tone. "No one's blaming you." He took in a deep breath to calm down. "Get on the phone to the MP's," he ordered. "See if you can head them off at the pass. So to speak."

"Gotcha," Klinger said before he scurried off. Potter sighed.

"Damn writers," he cursed. "Always thinking they know better." He looked up at the ceiling. "You could have told me," he said accusingly. "I do run things around here, you know."

"And what about us?" Hawkeye said, his pleasant voice rising in outrage. "You gave him a pass and not us? How dare you! We're the stars of the show!"

"Until now, I didn't think that a lady could be that underhanded," Colonel Potter murmured sadly. "Guess I was wrong."

"Oh, you shouldn't be so hard on her," B.J. said casually. "After all, she was probably born with a warped sense of humor."

Suddenly, a string of words formed in the air before the three men.

 _It was necessary for the plot,_ the letters said. _I apologize, Colonel._ The words disappeared, then reformed into new shapes. _For what it's worth, you were always one of my favorites._

"So why'd you do it?" the senior officer asked.

 _Like I said, it was all part of a grand plan,_ the author typed. _I got to type up a M*A*S*H segment. Major Hochstetter received treatment. And, as a bonus, I played a prank on Burns._

"His pass was a fake?" Hawkeye blurted, cluing in.

 _Nope,_ the letters said. _However, he should have read the fine print..._

A copy of the pass suddenly appeared in the air before Colonel Potter. The older man plucked the document from its invisible holder and scanned the contents. After a moment a light chuckle filled the air before the older man started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Pierce asked, annoyed.

"Burns is going to Tokyo..." the Colonel guffawed.

"What's so funny about that?" B.J. asked.

The Colonel passed the paper to Hawkeye. After a moment he joined in the laughter as well. The third doctor glared at the other two.

"Want to let me in on the joke?"

Hawk, still snickering, showed him the paper. "You see here where it says 'Tokyo' on the paper, right?

"So?" B.J. shrugged. "Those are the same travel orders we get..." Suddenly, his eyes drifted to the bottom of the page before he grinned. "Tokyo...in Alaska?"

"Nonstop from Kimpo," Potter laughed. "One the author created, too! Guess they should have read the fine print before they left. I hear they have a population of five, including a blundering moose and a crazy squirrel."

"Let me guess," the chief surgeon broke in. "They're the mayor and town treasurer."

Potter laughed. "No, but the locals call them Rocky and Bullwinkle. Bullwinkle's the moose, you know."

"And a registered Democrat, I bet." He smiled and leaned his head back against the wall. "Ah, the Arctic Circle," Hawkeye said loftily. "Full of polar bears, Eskimos…"

"And the snow," B.J. interjected. "Don't forget about the snow. A frown appeared on his lips. "Oh, I wish I was there," he said in mock dejection.

"Why's that?" Colonel Potter asked, confused.

"I've never seen a pair of Hot Lips turn blue before."

The men chuckled. At that moment Nurse Kellye poked her head through the door.

"Doctor Pierce?" At that, Hawkeye's eyes turned serious at the unspoken message.

"Which one?" he asked, his face grim. "The Murkleson kid?"

"No," the nurse said. "It's the one that Major Burns operated on. The German."

"Ah, the life of a chief surgeon," Hawk moaned as he slowly rose off the bench. "Patients all day, patients all night and disappearing doctors in between."

"That's why they pay you the big bucks," his friend cheerfully grinned. "Need some help?"

"Sure, why not?" Pierce said. "I'm always willing to share the pain." With that, he staggered into Post-Op. To his surprise Major Hochstetter was sleeping soundly in his bed.

"What gives?" he asked, now confused.

"This." With that, she pulled the blanket back. After a moment of stunned silence Hawkeye began to laugh before he caught himself and ran out the door. His friend watched him with curious eyes as he walked up. "What the…" B.J. said, taking in the still figure. Moments later, his mustache began to twitch. Fortunately his self control lasted long enough to make it outside Post-Op where the two men howled with laughter.

At that moment Major Hochstetter slowly awoke from his induced sleep and tried to scratch his nose. A blood curdling scream rang throughout the camp as the Major, horrified, realized that his feet had been reattached to his arms. And if they were on his arms…

He awkwardly pushed back the blanket.

No one in Post-Op got any sleep that night.

 _From the author: Yes, I realize Frank isn't that stupid. He's a highly trained and competent doctor...er, excuse me..._

 _[_ the figure turns and makes several coughs that sound suspiciously like laughter before returning to the audience]

 _...however, to advance the plot I may have adjusted several minor details. Not to worry; Major Hochstetter will be right as rain in the end._

 _More or less._

 _Maybe less._

 _With that done, we now return you to the story!_

* * *

 _Three hours and many, many wolf whistles later..._

Colonel Hogan, back to his old self and utterly exhausted, dragged himself back to the barracks. He glanced at the dethorned roses in his hand before he laid them aside. With a groan, he removed his heels - the only article of feminine apparel the author *didn't* change back into male clothing - and rubbed his sore feet.

 _Roses, catcalls, leers and at least one marriage proposal._ Hogan let a heavy sigh pass his lips.

 _Sometimes it's hard to be a woman..._

He met the pitying stares of his men head-on and got down to business.

"Any luck getting into the tunnel?"

Kinch shook his head. "She's got it locked up tighter than a drum. Last time I went down there I walked into one of the Republican debates." He smiled. "Trump's Hair was trouncing everyone."

"Ahead by a long hair, huh?" Hogan smiled.

Kinch's white teeth grinned. "You got it. I'm afraid there's no hope..."

At that moment they felt the author's presence depart.

"...but we're Hogan's Heroes," he smirked. "Nothing stops us!"

"Amen to that," Carter said. "Quality is job one!"

"...and we're built Hogan tough!" Newkirk grinned, then frowned. "Now what does that mean? I was just going to say that we'll get it done."

"I guess the author was watching a Ford commercial," the Colonel said before he glanced at the tunnel. "Let's go."

* * *

Slowly Hogan, followed by his men, descended into the tunnel. The floor and walls of the tunnel were dry and deserted.

 _So why do I have a bad feeling? Again?_

Kinch hurried over to the set. "Everything looks good, Colonel," he said as he watched the vacuum tubes light up. "We'll be ready to transmit in a minute."

Hogan merely nodded as he looked down the tunnels once more before another question popped into his mind. "Do you have anyone else in mind if we can't contact this..." he frowned... "Snooky-9093?"

"There's another one we can try," Kinch said. "Her name is Missy the Least."

"The least of what?" the Colonel queried.

"Three evils, apparently." He grinned. "Apparently she carries around a staff to whack people with. Presidents, dignitaries, little brothers, that sort of thing. She also carries an axe as well."

"What for?"

The black man grinned his pearly whites. "I try not to ask. Saves me from being called as a witness later."

"Ok, another question," the Colonel asked, changing subjects. "How are you going to contact either of them?" he wondered. "Even more, why would they want to say anything? Authors usually don't get into each other's stories." He shuddered. "I won't even bring up Fan Fiction Court."

"I was going to work my radio magic, Colonel," the radioman said solemnly.

"And if that doesn't work?"

Kinch shrugged. "Then I'll try begging."

"That's the spirit," the senior officer said, affectionately patting the man on the back. The NCO looked at the glowing dials.

"We're ready." He donned his 'cans' and keyed the microphone. "Snooky-9093, Missy the Least, or any Author, this is Papa Bear. Do you read?"

Staticky sonorous static greeted his words. He tried again.

"Snooky-9093, Missy the Least or any author, this is Papa Bear. Come in." Just then a loud sound caused Kinch to rip his earphones off. With a smooth motion he flipped the speakers on.

 _"...Allied Support System menu, your source for all things belonging to the Allies!"_ a man's voice declared. _"For English, please say 'one'. For French, please say two. For all the other Allied languages not featured on Hogan's Heroes please say 'three'. If you're German, please stay on the line. One of our dedicated bomber fleets will be dispatched to your location...Kamerad."_

Kinch and Hogan looked at each other with raised eyebrows as the man's voice droned on. "Might as well play along," the Colonel muttered, gesturing toward the radio.

The sergeant keyed the microphone. "One," he rumbled.

There was a series of clicks before the man's voice returned. _"Welcome to the Allied Support System menu,"_ he cheerfully intoned. _"Please note that all calls will be recorded for quality assurance and for us to laugh at later. If you need a bombing raid to cover an escape or other sabotage please say 'one'. If you're looking for a supply drop, please say 'two'. If you need a better bad guy than the one your writer or author dreamed up please say 'three'..."_

"I guess they think of everything," Hogan muttered.

 _"...and if you're looking for the 'blonde bombshell' of the week please say 'four'. For brunettes, please say 'five'' Please note that redheads are restricted to officers of general rank..."_

"Now I know they've thought of everything," the officer chuckled.

 _"For crazy plot lines that would never happen in real life, say 'marketing'. For crazy plot lines that actually happened in prison camps say 'library'. For advice on whether any of the current Democratic or Republican candidates will make great Presidents say 'fantasy'. For general unhelpful customer service please say 'seven'."_

"Seven" Kinch immediately said. There was a moment of silence.

" _I'm sorry, I didn't understand your request,"_ the man said all too happily before the line _clicked_ again. _"Welcome to the Allied Support System menu, your source for all things belonging to the Allies!"_ it began again. _"If you need a bombing raid..."_

Both men groaned.

 **Two hours later...**

 _"Welcome to customer service, Carol speaking,"_ a woman's nasal voice spoke. _"How can I help you?"_

Hogan and Kinch breathed a frustrated sigh of relief. "Yes, ma'am. We're trying to reach an author," the radioman said. "Can you help us?"

 _"Sure,"_ Carol said. _"May I ask what show you're calling from?"_

Hogan and Kinch traded looks once more. "Um, I thought this was the Allied Support System," the colored man began, confused.

 _"Yup, that's one of my jobs!"_ the woman said in an even tone. _"I also take health care calls and handle the robocall network for useless campaign surveys. Which show?"_

"Hogan's Heroes," Kinch replied.

 _"Oh, I love that show!"_ Carol gushed. _"I mean, I know Hogan was the star of the show but I thought Kinch was the really cute one. I wouldn't kick him out of my bed if you know what I mean..."_

The sergeant blushed, then caught Hogan's eye before sitting up. "Um...well...,' he stammered.

 _"Would you be able to get his autograph?"_ the woman went on, seemingly oblivious. _"Oh, wait! If you're on the radio then you're Kinch, right?"_

"That's me," the operator said.

 _"Oh, wonderful!"_ she said brightly. _"I mean, I know you don't have a phone but I could probably drop by sometime. Anytime. All I have to do is press a button and keep people on hold forever! Heck, if I wanted to I could black out Peoria-"_

Hogan took the microphone and keyed it. "This is Colonel Hogan," he announced. "I hate to interrupt but we really need to get a message through."

 _"Well!"_ she said huffily. _"I was in the middle of a private conversation! Do you mind?! If you'll put Kinch back on the phone..."_

Hogan handed the microphone back to the Sergeant. "I'm here." he announced.

 _"Oh great!"_ Carol exclaimed. _"Listen, do you like blondes or brunettes? With a little time I can be either one..."_

Kinch sighed.

* * *

Colonel Hogan, for his part, couldn't keep the smile off of his face as he ascended to the barracks. His men looked at him expectantly.

"We're in business," he announced. "Kinch is passing along our message now. We got lucky." His voice faded at the poor choice of words.

 _If that woman gets ahold of him he probably will be!_

"Hope so, Colonel," Newkirk said dismally. "You might want to take a look outside." Curious, Hogan opened the door...

* * *

Meanwhile, in one of those random parallel universes that no one seriously cares about:

 _I understand that some of you are possibly concerned as to the quality – or lack thereof – of the medical care given to Major Wolfgang Hochstetter. Like you, I am horrified that the major has hands for feet and vice versa. I wonder how that could have happened?;-)_

 _Rest assured, my dear readers, I have taken the appropriate steps to correct this horrendous outrage by hiring the best surgeon available._ At that moment a short bearded man walked through the door. "Hi, everybody!" he called out.

"Hi, Doctor Nick!" a chorus of voices answered back.

 _Yes, Dr. Nick is a respected graduate of a top-flight medical college…_

"Hollywood Upstairs Medical College!" the good doctor added. "A place where a young man could achieve his dream of becoming a doctor! Plus, they had some really pretty nurses..."

 _Ok, so I should have checked his credentials a bit better. Still, Hochstetter has one of the finest surgeons money can buy! There is absolutely nothing for him to worry about…_

[The Major, unconscious, is brought into the operating room. Dr. Riviera examines his patient.] "Oh, ho!" he exclaimed, looking at the mismatched arms and legs. "It's obvious that you are here for a head amputation!"

"Doctor!" a nurse hissed. "He requires surgery to properly reattach his arms and legs."

"Oopsie!" Dr. Nick declared, then laughed. "I haven't made that sort of mistake in days!" He looked at Hochstetter. "You're going to be just fine!" he reassured his patient.

"He's ready, doctor," the same nurse informed him. "Pulse and respiration are steady..."

"Good!" the quack said before he looked around the large room. "Now, where's that Craftsman power saw that I bought at auction this morning?"

"Doctor, you can't use that in an OR!" the nurse said, her eyes scandalized. "Besides, the blade is rusty! Even if it weren't, it'd need to be sterilized!"

"Str-e-lized," Dr. Nick said slowly before he cocked his head in confusion. "Is that one of those made-up words?"

 _Oh...dear. While I fix this, let's return to the story!_

* * *

-nothing. Only the usual camp atmosphere greeted his eyes. Nothing appeared amiss, but...

"I'll be right back," he said. Hoping against hope, Colonel Hogan raced over to the office and flung open the inner door to find-

"What is it, Hogan?" Colonel Klink said irritably as he looked up from the mound of papers on his desk. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Well..." the Colonel paused, surprised. "I just wasn't expecting to see you here, sir," he candidly admitted. "What happened with Seven of Nine? The car?"

"Seven of Nine? My car?" the Kommandant parroted, clearly confused. At that, he jumped up from his desk and flashed narrowed eyes at the enemy Colonel. "I don't have time for your games, Hogan! Just what are you talking about?"

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "Well I just...well." The Colonel raised an eyebrow in confusion before he decided to play it safe. "Never mind," he casually dissembled. "There's a rumor that you were with a beautiful blonde. You know, robbing banks and rustling cattle-"

At that, Klink snorted. "Do you see any beautiful women around here?" he demanded irritably, then harumphed. "This is why we Germans will win the war," he declared, shaking a finger before the other man's face. "We are people of culture and refinement while yours are nothing more than gangsters! Robbing banks!" He shook his head and returned to his desk. "Now, will there be anything else?" he snidely asked.

"No, sir," Colonel Hogan said automatically. "It's just surprising that you're still here in your office. What with General Burkhalter roaming the camp-"

Klink waved his hand dismissively. "Really, Hogan, you don't expect me to fall for that one, do you?" he scoffed. "The General is in Berlin. I know this because he just called me to complain that my daily reports were not that: daily! Now really, if you don't mind, get out!" With that, he sat down and returned to his paperwork.

Hogan nodded, then walked toward the door. As he reached the doorknob he turned around. "You know, I'd bet you'd make a great movie actor," he declared.

The Luftwaffe Colonel opened his mouth to speak before he paused to consider the idea. "Really?" he wondered openly, standing up. "You know, Hogan, I've always wanted to try my hand at acting. After the war of course." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Let me ask you this, Hogan: what American actor would I play best?"

"Oh, there's no contest," Hogan offered. "Edward G. Robinson. Mild-mannered but a man of action."

"Hmmm..." After a moment Klink shook his head. "Perhaps, but he's not that tough. Do you know what actor I'd like to meet, much less be?"

"Who's that?"

"James Cagney," the German said, a trifle dreamily. "Now there was a real man! He knew how to romance the ladies and to take care of his enemies! I remember seeing him in a number of movies before the war. And his voice..." He lowered his tones several octaves before he patromined holding a Tommy Gun in his hands. "Take that, you dirty rat!" he spat before he sprayed an imaginary enemy with airy bullets-

-and then recoiled as he realized exactly what he was doing. At that moment he whirled around and flashed angry eyes at the American Colonel. "OUT!" he screamed, pointing a quivering finger at the office door.

"You know, I think you've got it," he said calmly before flashing his trademark smile. With that, he left and returned to the barracks.

* * *

"So everything's back to normal?" Newkirk asked.

"Looks like one of those authors convinced ours," the Colonel said before another thought struck him. "Then again, I think she left a few loose ends."

"Such as?" Kinch asked.

* * *

Meanwhile, somewhere in the Antarctic...

A lone figure, clad in a heavy parka, grimaced as he glanced at the endless ice sheet that lay before his goggled eyes. High icy winds, accompanied by flecks of snow, tore at his outer garments with unrelenting fury. There was no end in sight for his neverending journey; it was enough to make a man scream.

An instant later, he did.

* * *

"Well, that takes care of Hochstetter," Hogan said, reading over the last words. "I wouldn't worry about him, though. The good bad guys never die. They're just humiliated in reruns."

"That makes sense," LeBeau observed. "Too bad she can't leave him out there." A chorus of chuckles greeted that statement.

"We'd never get that lucky," Hogan joked. "Anyone heard from Schultz?"

"He's back in the guard barracks," Carter said before his face turned sorrowful "I felt bad for him too. Poor guy was crying."

"Crying? Why is that?" LeBeau asked.

"Oh, he had just started one of those 'all-you-can-eat-steak' dinners when he came back," the American explained. "He was in the middle of a t-bone steak, too."

"Can't blame him for crying on that one," Newkirk observed. "Been a long time since I've seen anything that looked that good. Maybe if the author would provide one..." He glanced up at the ceiling.

"Figures," he groused.

At that exact moment large platters of steak and potatoes appeared on the table before the astonished eyes of the assembled men. Even the extras - who had been mostly ignored up to this point - had a plate as well. Baskets of soft rolls graced the tables as well.

Silence reigned for several seconds before LeBeau touched the hot steak with a fingernail. "It's perfect," he breathed. The Colonel himself savored the sight of his own delicious dinner before he sat down on the empty bench.

"Dig in," he ordered. "Before she changes her mind."

No one had to be told twice.

* * *

Thirty minutes later...

The Colonel pushed his empty plate away with reluctance. "I don't think I've ever eaten that good," he murmured as he surveyed the remains. "Not even in those episodes where I actually played a traitor."

"I second that," Kinch said, a look of contentment on his dark face. "And the dessert." He licked his lips reflexively. "Best chocolate cake I've ever had."

"Magnificent!" the resident cook exclaimed, patting his own satisfied belly. "I would have never imagined that anyone in Germany could make such a meal!"

"So what's the catch?" Carter asked, bringing the obvious question into play.

"Good question," Colonel Hogan said before cocking his head. "Maybe she's up to something."

"Uh, Colonel," one of the extras broke in. "I hate to interrupt, but...what the heck is that?"

The assorted men followed the end of the enlisted man's gaze to an odd box-like contraption sitting on the table. A black glasslike screen hosted a lighted floating character in the upper left-hand corner. Suddenly, words appeared in gold:

 _There is no catch. I did it by way of apology._

The men looked at each other. "Apology?" the Colonel said, stunned at the turn of events.

 _For treating you with disrespect. The other authors...explained...things to me. How characters should be used in a plot and not for your own amusement. For that, I am sorry._

"About bloody time," growled Newkirk before a quick eye glance by Hogan shushed him. "We're near the end of the story, aren't we?"

 _Yes,_ the screen wrote. _But before I mark the story as 'complete' I wanted to offer you a little thrill. Call it an apology on top of an apology._ The screen paused then flashed back to life. _I suppose, since you've humbled yourselves, I should do so as well._

"So what are you proposing, exactly?" Hogan asked, curious.

 _Mmmm..._ the letters scrolled. _I suppose I could wear a bathing suit and nothing else..._

Murmurs of excited approval swept through the barracks before the senior officer raised his right hand. "And how would you do that, exactly? Appear in the barracks?"

 _No,_ the electronic words said. _However, the screen does show images._ _Obviously, I'll start with my legs and work the camera upward. Are you ready?_

Colonel Hogan looked around the now-excited barracks. "Go ahead," he breathed, trying to appear casual.

An image of a slender leg then appeared in full color on the screen. Appreciative mutters echoed against the walls as the men stared at the exposed flesh.

Words, smaller this time, appeared below the image on the screen. _So,_ they began. _Has anyone ever seen The Crying Game? Heard of Yentl? I was just curious._

Colonel Hogan was seized by a dark foreboding as he read the letters. "Don't look at the screen!" he ordered. It was too late.

No one swung their eyes away from the lustful scene as it expanded out to show a full pair of nyloned legs wearing black pumps.

"Boy, that's dreamy," muttered Carter, lost in the image.

"That's my next wife," LeBeau added, his words soft.

"Not if I get to her first," countered Newkirk.

"Stop!" Hogan ordered, shaking each man by the shoulders. It was no use. Eyes, glazed over with obvious lust, stared at the lavicious scene before them.

 _I do have one thing to say before we go any further, gentlemen..._

"Anything,"... LeBeau said dreamily.

The picture suddenly widened out to show a thin man wearing a bathing suit and t-shirt. "Like the work I put in on my legs?" a man's voice suddenly announced from a hidden speaker.

"YOU!" a chorus of male voices exclaimed, instantly recognizing the figure.

"But of course!" the author said smugly. "I was behind it all! No plot! No direction! Just laughter! It's not my fault you assumed I was female because of my screen name! Guys can write fan fiction too. We're just little tugboats of testosterone floating on a sea of estrogen. Or so I wrote once."

A cheerful, if slightly rueful, smile broke out on the good-looking man's face. "Not that I didn't pay for it," he went on. "Do you know how painful it is to have your legs waxed? And to pay extra on top so they don't laugh at your expression when they pull the strips?"

"We were leering at a bloke's legs," Newkirk said, turning green. "I'm going to be sick..." Judging by the faces of the other men he wasn't the only one.

"And that's not the best part!" the voice blurted out. "Do you know what today is?"

"Don't say it..." Hogan breathed.

"APRIL FOOLS!" 80sarcades yelled out before he held up a nyloned leg again. "You can take another gander if you want, my dears. I can also do a Rockettes number, too..."

He laughed hysterically as the men, doubled over and covering their mouths, broke toward the front door and the obvious conclusion. Only Colonel Hogan, his face red with anger, glared at the screen.

"Have you no shame?" he demanded. "No decency?" The officer then pointed a finger at his antagonist. "Just wait," he vowed. "Sooner or later you'll end back up at Fan Fiction Court," he savagely vowed. "We'll be waiting for you."

80sarcades merely smiled. "You can try, Colonel," he smugly replied. "You can try..."

 _[Fin/Ende]_

Epilogue:

Colonel Hogan hung silently in the netherworld between stories as he waited for a new author to show herself.

 _Or himself,_ he corrected, involuntarily cringing. Still, there was an air of excitement.

 _What will happen now?_ he wondered. _A new author, a new plot..._

 _...and I have no idea who it will be._

Suddenly the scene changed to show the familiar outlines of the Kommandantur. He tensed as the camp commander walked out onto the porch to begin an all-too-familiar pattern:

"Prisoners of the Reich," he intoned, "I bring you news of the war of which you are no longer a part of..."

Hogan groaned inwardly before he tensed involuntarily.

 _Here it comes..._

"The war in the east continues to go well for us," the Kommandant went on. "Our armies continue to push the Red forces back on all fronts..."

The Colonel relaxed. Maybe there was hope for this story after all!

"...proving, once and for all, that the Big Red army will be crushed by the spring!"

Hogan blinked.

 _What?_

"In the west, the Coca-Cola Allies continue to lose against the might of the Reich..." he went on.

A sense of dread settled into the pit of the officer's stomach as the crazy plot continued.

 _This can't be happening!_

"...and soon, we will force President Pepper and his partner in crime, Prime Minister Fanta, to their knees in surrender. Soon, the Pepsi Reich will rule the world!" He looked at Sergeant Schultz expectantly.

"All bottles present and accounted for, sir!" he energetically exclaimed before saluting his superior officer.

"Very well, then," Colonel Klink replied, returning the gesture. "Dis-fizzed!" With that, he went back into his office before Hogan's men broke away to the warmth of their own barracks.

The Colonel, now alone, glanced down at his sleeve. Instead of his normal Air Corps insignia a pair of interlocked C's lay printed there. And now, he knew who was behind the plot.

 _It's not fair..._

Colonel Hogan looked up at the sky as a wave of frustration built upward into every fiber of his being until he could take it no more. He drew in a deep breath, forgetting the basic cardinal rule of storytelling;

 _In fan fiction, no one can hear you scream._

Hogan drew in a shuddering breath and-

 _[Fin/Ende Redux]_

And so this tale ends! In case you've never met me, I'm _80sarcades_ \- I used to write HH fanfiction some time ago. I apologize for the late April Fools Day joke but my schedule was pushed back so...there goes the story!

 _OLadyofSpiral_ is an anagram of 'April Fools Day'. Yes, this probably isn't original but I just did the name and the story for the laughs - if you enjoyed yourself, then my work was worthwhile!

Lastly, I would like to give a 'shout out' to my reviewers: **WinterFrost15** , **Rutika** , **Baja-King** , **Snooky-9093** and **Missy the Least.** The last two were kind enough to let me use their screen names for this story.

As always, thanks for reading!


End file.
